Tales From the Necropolis
by Jammer69er
Summary: Witness the destruction of Raccoon City from the viewpoint of its various citizens. Runs parallel to my other story, 'The Fall of Raccoon'.
1. Bad Days Ahead

**A/N: Hello again, everyone on . This is Jammer69er here, author of 'The Fall of Raccoon', and here is the first instalment of 'Tales from the Necropolis', a side project that runs parallel with the main story, featuring characters that have featured briefly in the story, and following their efforts to survive the nightmare that used to be Raccoon City.**

**One reason I wanted to do this is because I wanted to try and capture the terror and desperation of the civilians of the city as the T-Virus started to take hold, and every second becomes a battle for survival. There will be cameos and references to other characters and scenarios from TFOR, and also new perspectives and viewpoints for certain scenes also featured in the main story, I hope.**

So without further ado…

**Tales from the ****Necropolis**

**Prologue**

September 1998…the time when Raccoon City, a small town in America's Mid-west, was totally wiped off the map. The cause? An outbreak of a deadly mutagenic toxin, the T-Virus, developed in secret by Umbrella Incorporate, one of the world's largest and most prestigious pharmaceutical companies, which specialised in secret experiments utilising biological weapons, designed for military purposes. As a result of their crimes, the city they had adopted as their base of operations in the United States was totally infected by an outbreak of the virus, and within the space of over a week, Raccoon City was wiped off of the map.

By the 27th of September, Raccoon City had become a Necropolis, a city filled with the dead. The majority of Raccoon's 100,000 population had been infected with the virus and reduced to a second, horrific existence as the walking dead. But not all were condemned to such a fate: among the city's population were small numbers of those whose determination to survive allowed them to live on while those around them succumbed to the very worst humanity could offer.

These are their stories. And the stories of what limits mankind will push itself to, in order to survive the worst disaster imaginable…

**Chapter 1: That Dread Feeling  
**

**September 25****th**** 0712 hours**

_BRRRIIINNNGGG!!!_

A hand reached over and slapped down on top of the alarm clock, silencing its incessant alarm. There was a low groaning, and one of the occupants of the room groaned and rolled over, before sitting up and rubbing his eyes a few times to help himself to wake up. Lenny Bristol groaned again and swung his legs around onto the carpeted floor, pulling on a plain grey t-shirt as he did so, getting to his feet and stretching his arms above him.

Lenny Bristol was a man in his early thirties, with short dark hair and grey-green coloured eyes, of a moderate build. And he also happened to be a 5-year veteran of the Raccoon City Police department, a position he had served with distinction and valour, or at least that's what the commendation ceremony had said about him the year before, after he'd superbly handled and defused a stand-off with a gang of bank robbers following a rather dramatic city-wide chase that had been regarded as one of the worst crimes that had plagued the city in recent times. Though he'd been rather modest in accepting the commendation in the first place, a lot of the precinct, especially the newer recruits, regarded him as a living hero.

He wandered through to the en suite, pulling the light cord on. He looked at his reflection, blinking repeatedly as his eyes tried to adjust to the sudden light change. He considered his weary appearance briefly, wishing he could have had more sleep, but he couldn't have that luxury: he couldn't get the leave, and the entire department was being pushed to breaking point, even though they had requested a lot of new recruits lately. 30 alone were expected to turn up by the end of the week.

8 murders in the last week alone, and all with the same MO: victims apparently eaten alive, by some twisted cannibalistic cult, the press had stated, and it was the closest answer that the R.P.D could come to themselves. They still couldn't find any definite answer as to why these murders had started in the first place: they couldn't find their main suspects; there was no pattern to the killings. They thought it had all ended at the end of July, but now it had all flared up once again.

Today was likely to be yet another busy day in this grusome saga.

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Refreshed and dressed in a plain white shirt and blue jeans, Lenny Bristol entered his kitchen, where the rest of his family had gathered, preparing for the rest of the day.

"Morning honey," smiled his wife, Anna, as he sat himself down at the head of the table. She was a sweet-natured girl he had met when he first moved to Raccoon City, years before. It was love at first sight, many would say. She was tall and slim, with long strawberry blonde hair and an almond-shaped face, with emerald green eyes and flawless skin. She was a doctor at Raccoon General, and had been for the last 3 years.

"Morning, sweetness," he smiled, as the two of them shared a quick kiss. And then he turned towards the small figure sat on the seat to the right of him, their arms laid out across the table, either side of a bowl of cereal. "And how's my little man doing today?"

"I'm fine, daddy," beamed his 5 year-old son, Lewis. The boy was golden-haired and fair faced, so he definitely took after his mother in that regard…well, he had his father's cheeky streak, but that was about it.

"That's good son," smiled Lenny, ruffling the child's hair, before walking into the hall. "Gonna go get the paper, honey."

"Allright," called Anna back, as he passed by the dog basket laid out in the hall, and the German Shepherd that had been lying there started to stir, her tail wagging furiously as her master passed by.

"Hey girl," he smiled, stroking her head, and she was bounding up, following after him to the door. Sasha her name was, and she was due to be one of the drug sniffer dogs for the force, but her career didn't really pan out, and a new home was needed for her, so Lenny had taken her in. She'd proven to be a fine addition to the Bristol household in the long run.

He opened the front door and stepped out into the cool morning air, stretching his arms above him and yawning wide as he did so. He lived at 9 Pine Avenue, one of the nicest suburbs in the whole of the Raccoon City area, with neatly-trimmed green lawns, well-furnished, expensive detached houses and very friendly neighbours, like some cliché of ideal American living, but Lenny wasn't really bothered by that: he was lucky enough to be able to move out of his inner city apartment and into a place like this, space for a family.

"Morning Lenny," said a voice from his right, and he turned to see his neighbour, David Foster, standing by his hedges, pruning them with a set of hand shears. He was a kindly old gentleman in his early sixties, his dark hair starting to turn silver, but he was still as fit as an ox, and he was a gardening obsessive: now retired from his job as a city engineer, he spent a lot of his days tending to his beloved front garden patch, which was by far the best garden in the whole city, one had to admit. He would always wear a bright blue gardening apron while he did his gardening as well.

"Morning Dave," smiled Lenny back, walking down his path and picking up the morning edition of the Raccoon Press, the city's main tabloid newspaper. Sasha followed close behind him, but then she started to run around the lawn, barking in joy to be let out for the morning. Lenny unfolded the paper, and looked at the headline, frowning.

_MURDERS DEATH TOLL__ THIS WEEK RISES TO 12._

He sighed and shook his head. It wasn't the first bad headline he'd read recently. Since mid-August the city had been plagued by numerous bizarre murders that had taken place in the suburbs and city outskirts mainly, though a few had occurred within the downtown area recently. It was just like those 'cannibal murders' back in the early summer…even though that case had been announced officially closed at the end of July.

"Damned shame, isn't it?" said Mr Foster from behind his hedge sadly, shaking his head. "All those dead people…and you and your friends have to clean the mess up."

"Don't remind me," said Lenny. He still remembered the grisly sights he had witnessed back at the first murder scene he had visited. It was disgusting, to say the least. The state that poor woman had been left in-

"But that's our duty, after all," he smiled, tucking the paper back under his arm. "Back to the grind, I suppose."

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He was quiet for the rest of breakfast, as he read the main story in the print before him, as Sasha lay at his feet, breathing softly. He scanned the lines quickly, reading aloud in his head.

_Late last night, the bodies of Peter Faulkner and the rest of his family__, wife Jessica and his twin daughters Katie and Charlotte, were discovered at their home on Birch Road, brutally murdered, in the latest of the recent string of gruesome 'cannibal murders' that have plagued the city for some months now. It is speculated that the murders were committed by the same gang who have carried out past attacks, although police chief Irons and the rest of the Raccoon Police Department are remaining silent for the time being-_

"I really wish you wouldn't read that stuff at the table," said Anna from ahead of him. He sighed and lowered the paper, making contact with her concerned eyes. He then glanced to the side at his son, who was busy with his bowl of cereal, dripping milk all over the table top, as he usually did, taking no interest in what his father was doing at the moment.

"It's hard when you have to deal with it face to face though," he sighed, tucking the newspaper away for the time being, but he'd be going back to it later that day, he reckoned. "I mean we're all spooked out, but Irons still won't do anything. He keeps telling the public not to panic, and tells us not to divulge anything to anyone…but we need to act _now!_" The anger in his voice was clearly evident when he finished his statement, stabbing a finger into the table. This case was getting to him. Anna continued to look at him, concerned, before she got to her feet and moved around beside him.

"I know you find it hard," she said, "but I still think he's too young to be exposed to this kind of stuff." She was talking about their son.

"I know, I know," he nodded, rubbing his eyes. "I'm just scared they'll come here next…if anything were to happen to either of you-"

"Hey, nothing is going to happen," she said, looking him straight in the eye. "You'd protect us all, won't you?" Lenny looked into his wife's eyes, and felt himself complied to agree with anything she said.

"You're right," he smiled, holding onto one of her hands. "I'd walk to the ends of the earth to keep you both safe if I had to."

"That makes me so happy," she smiled back. "Now, who's up for some breakfast?"

"Sounds good to me," Lenny smiled back. Sasha seemed to agree as well, as she got to her feet again, tail wagging furiously.

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A few hours later, Lenny walked into the men's locker room of the R.P.D, throwing his bag of essentials down onto one of the benches, before opening the locker marked with his initials. Inside, a light-blue R.P.D shirt, a Kevlar vest and a pair of dark pants were hanging up, standard-issue uniform for all officers. A pair of brown leather shoes were standing in the bottom of the locker, and several small items, including a penlight, his Beretta handgun and holster, a box of bullets for the weapon, his pepper spray, and his handcuffs, lay on the top shelf of the locker, ready for him to start his shift for the day.

One by one, he removed the items of clothing, draping them over the bench, before he removed the black jacket he was wearing and hanging it in place of the shirt, before he started to pull on the black pants. And then he noticed the picture pinned to the inside of the locker door.

It was a photo taken the year before. It showed himself and a few other veteran officers from the R.P.D, at the ceremony to receive their commendations for outstanding services to their duty for protecting the people of the city. They were all dressed in full dress uniform, complete with the peaked caps and buttoned-up dark blue jackets, all of them smiling as they held onto the brass-plated shields they had been presented with just previously by Mayor Warren himself. He smiled as he remembered that day; it was like some crazy dream that never ended.

He looked up as he heard someone else enter the locker room, hurrying over to their own locker on the opposite side of the room, throwing the door open with a loud 'clang'. The other officer was younger than Lenny, in his mid twenties at least, with short dark hair and green eyes, his face clean-shaven. He was wearing some dark faded jeans and a battered denim jacket, which he quickly removed and hung up on one of the hangers, retrieving his R.P.D clothing as he did so. Lenny smiled when he realised who it was.

"Hey Dean," he said simply, causing the younger man to jump in surprise before turning around.

"Morning Lenny," he replied.

Dean Travers was a fairly new member of the R.P.D: a native of Virginia, he'd moved to Raccoon City a couple of years back on the recommendation of Ben Campbell, one of the other higher-ranked officers who also happened to be Dean's old friend from years back: even if Dean himself had zero experience in law enforcement. Lenny and a few others didn't like him that much at first: he was so quiet and serious, unlike Ben, the precinct's practical joker. But over time he'd proven himself to be a good officer, a man who'd do what was asked of him, to the best of his abilities.

"How's it going?" asked Lenny, shaking the young man's hand as a sign of goodwill.

"It's been fine Lenny, how about the family?" replied Dean as he pulled on his Kevlar vest.

"They're good," nodded Lenny as he donned his own vest as well. "It's just that I can't help but fear for them in the current climate…all those murders going on…but hey, don't let me be all doom and gloom," he then said, managing a smile.

"Geez dude, that must be tough," sighed Dean, rubbing his chin. He didn't have any family in the city, so he had to try and put himself in Lenny's shoes in that regard.

"Yeah…but I'd rather talk about something else," continued Lenny. "How's Ben doing?"

"Yeah, he's good…cheerful as usual, despite the murders and all," replied Dean, folding his arms in front of his chest. "We've been called out to Jack's Bar anyway…Jack shot some guy eating this poor woman alive, I've heard."

"Oh damn," muttered Lenny, as Dean glanced at his watch suddenly.

"Shit, that reminds me, I better pull my finger out and get going," he said, quickly reaching for his R.P.D shirt and pulling it on. "Are we still on for that night-out at the weekend?"

"Oh hell yes," laughed Lenny. "Trust me, it's been way too long since I last had a good cold drink."

"That's the spirit," grinned Dean, as he reached for his holster and started to tie it around his belt. "We need our best drinker on board if we're going to put Raccoon's best drinking holes out of business, eh?"

"I'll try," smiled Lenny, "though my poor liver might say otherwise." The two officers laughed amongst themselves: the prospect of that night out was sounding very good right about now, after the week they'd just had.

Pity they'd never get a chance to have that night out.

A few minutes later, the two cops were fully changed and ready to go, and went their own separate ways. Dean headed off to the back lot, while Lenny made his way to the west office, passing by his fellow officers, nodding and greeting the ones he recognised. He'd barely walked into the west office itself when he found himself face-to-face with an African-American officer with a well-trimmed beard, a bunch of files clutched under his arm. It was Marvin Branagh, the force's Lieutenant, and one of the most respected officers in the entire R.P.D.

"Morning Lenny," he said, barely managing a smile.

"Geez man, when did you last sleep?" asked Lenny, concerned. Lately, poor Marvin had been up late most nights trying to clean up this whole mess of the cannibal murders: the press releases, managing the transfer of information between the other groups involved, tasks the chief of police should have been on top of, but apparently not.

"Don't ask," muttered Marvin, leafing through his files for a quick second. "Irons really should be on top of all this, but that fat oaf seems more content to sit up in that damned office of his, letting the rest of us run about for him."

"Someone really should talk to him," said Lenny, shaking his head. "Irons is usually never this slow to take action."

"You think I haven't already tried?!" asked Marvin, rhetorically. "It's like talking to a brick wall."

"Hey, don't get too chewed up over it," said Lenny, reassuringly. "How's the family?"

"They're good, thanks for asking," smiled Marvin. "Malcolm's really enjoying school, so that's good. What about your own family?"

"They're great," smiled Lenny. "Anna's got some time off next week, so we're thinking of taking a trip out of town for a nice change. The way things have been lately, that'd be a luxury."

"Yeah, sounds good," nodded Marvin, before he quickly got back to business. "But for now Lenny, I need you and Jeff to look at the Birch Road case."

"You mean, the Faulkner family murders?" asked Lenny, the details of that news story coming to mind immediately.

"That's right," nodded Marvin. "I know it won't be pretty, but we are really short on manpower today, and I would really appreciate it if you did…look, I'll owe you both a cold drink once you've gone and made a report."

"Fine," said Lenny, raising his hands after a few quick seconds of thinking. "But at this rate, you owe us both a six pack!"

"Oh, don't worry about that," grinned Marvin, "all this time not buying drinks means I've got a lot of money to spare."

"Well that's good to hear Marvin," said a new voice from behind the two of them. They both turned to see a short, stocky red-haired man standing there, hands on his hips and a toothpick clenched in his teeth. It was Jeff Danson, Lenny's partner and old friend: they'd known each other for about 15 years, served in the R.P.D for 5 years each, and had been partners for that entire period, which was unusual considering how much the other officers usually rotated through their partners.

"And how are we today?" asked Lenny, smiling as he and Jeff knocked fists.

"Same as always, just peachy," smiled Jeff back, tossing his toothpick into a nearby waste bin, and then just as quickly taking another one out of his pocket and putting it back between his teeth. Apparently he had OCD, and chewing on those toothpicks helped him to calm down.

"You ready to go kick some cannibal ass?"

"We're just going to look at a crime scene," scoffed Lenny. "They're probably long gone by now."

"Hey, you never know, we might get lucky," retorted Jeff. "One of those cannibal freaks might be hiding in a bush, and when he tries to take a bite out of me, and then BAM! We're heroes."

"A bite out of you?" asked Lenny, raising an eyebrow. "Why not me?"

"Cause you're too scrawny to be a good meal, that's why," retorted Jeff. Lenny punched his partner in the arm in response.

"Yeah well, I doubt they'd go for a smartass like you anyways."

"Er, I'd like that report by today if you don't mind, children," said Marvin, who had just been standing there while the two partners went through their old banter routine. Patience was a virtue when working with Lenny Bristol and Jeff Danson.

"Oh of course, we'll get that done Marvin," replied Jeff. "Long as Lenny doesn't crash the car on the way there."

That remark earned him another punch to the arm.

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Lenny turned the car down another street, into the business district, which was usually thronging with people every day of the week, but now it was strangely abandoned, and only a few people walked the sidewalks. It was the murders, it had to be: people were scared to walk the streets now, convinced that the police weren't doing enough to keep them safe. Chief Irons really needed to get off of his ass and do something to reassure the people, otherwise it wouldn't be enough.

"This whole place seems to be losing its soul," sighed Jeff, looking out the passenger side window. "People are terrified to walk the streets now."

"You said it," replied Lenny, not taking his eyes off of the road. "Irons really needs to do something."

"You can say that again!" spat Jeff suddenly, with unusual venom in his voice. "We all know fine well that Marvin or Neil would be 10 times better as chief than him!"

"You still bitter about the painting incident?" asked Lenny, half-amused. Some months before, the chief had bought in a new painting for the briefing room fireplace…but whoever thought the image of a naked woman being burned at the stake constituted art had some serious issues. But anyway, Jeff had made some comment about it being an accurate representation of the chief's mind, and it filtered back to Irons himself eventually, who called Jeff into his office and proceeded to go straight through him.

"He had no right to talk to me like that!" replied Jeff, his back up. "He talked to me like I was some piece of shit he just scraped off of his shoe, screaming his head off. I should have broken his damned nose."

"Then you'd be looking for a new job afterwards," laughed Lenny.

"I swear though," continued Jeff, ignoring his partner's comment, "that guy has the equivalent of all our salaries in worthless paintings and other 'art' in the precinct…he must have a hell of a good bonus system going."

Lenny was inclined to agree in that respect. Several art pieces purchased by the chief could be seen around the precinct buildings, and several of them cost at least $20,000, easily. So how could the chief afford all of that, on his salary?

"We can worry about that some other time," muttered Lenny, turning onto Birch Road and seeing the small crowd gathered outside number 8. "We got work to do right now."

Lenny pulled up on the sidewalk a short distance away from the crowd, which mainly consisted of the local residents, alongside a news crew from the 'Raccoon 24' news show, and a pair of R.P.D officers, who were stood on the opposite side of the police tape, trying to keep the crowd back. The two new arrivals stepped out of the cruiser, slamming the doors shut, the sound alerting the news crew to the presence of more people to ask for a comment. As they walked up to tape, a female reporter approached them, a microphone in her hand and a news camera behind her.

"Excuse me, can either of you-"

"No comment," said Jeff curtly, holding a hand up as he and Lenny pushed past, stepping under the tape and nodding at the other two officers on duty. The reporter managed to look insulted as the two officers approached the open front door and stepped through, after taking a few seconds to accept and don some protective foot sheaths from one of the forensic officers standing just inside the doorway.

Inside, the home was typical of many of the homes in this part of the town: not expensive looking, but just serviceable enough for a family to live in. In the hallway, there were signs of a struggle: a lampshade on a nearby table had been knocked over, and one of the pictures on the wall, depicting a happy family, was smashed and lying on the floor. But Lenny took more notice of the bloody, uneven footprints on the grey carpet, leading from where he was currently stood towards the far end of the hall, into the kitchen. The wall was marked with bloody handprints as well. He swallowed slightly when the nauseating smell of blood trailed into his nostrils.

"Oh Jesus…what happened here?" asked Jeff, sounding shaken.

Lenny heard movement from upstairs, and turned to see a forensics officer, clad in full protective body glove to avoid any contamination of the scene, moving down the stairs and running outside, a hand clutched over his mouth. He exited the house, and the sound of him retching up his guts was heard.

"You should really stay down here," said a young voice, as another forensics officer suddenly stepped into view from the kitchen area. "It's a total mess upstairs. Someone killed the girls in their sleep…poor kids."

The image that flashed through Lenny's mind at that point made his blood boil. Killing adults was bad enough, but to kill a defenceless child while they slept? People capable of that needed to be dragged out into the street and shot in the head as far as he was concerned.

"Jesus," muttered Jeff.

"But anyway," said the forensics officer, offering his hand to shake, "I'm CSI Darwin, James Darwin. You must be Lenny and Jeff, is that correct?" He looked young, maybe in his early twenties, with thin-frame spectacles balanced on his nose, sandy-blonde hair and a thing frame: he was at least 3 inches short than Lenny was.

"That's correct," nodded Jeff, shaking James' hand. "We're your back-up for today…if you still need back-up, that is."

"Well I'm honoured you came along," smiled James, as he then shook Lenny's hand, "it's just a case of making sense of all of this, same as the other murders…"

"A bloody mess?" asked Jeff, as yet another forensics officer walked by.

"You could say that," nodded James grimly. "From what we can deduct, it looks like the husband was killed out in the back garden, maybe when he went out to see if there was an intruder…there's definitely evidence of there being a scuffle out there." After that, he turned and lead the way into the small living room, a TV in the far corner, a moderate-sized table in the middle of the carpet, and on the couch at the opposite end of the room, there was an obscured form, underneath a white sheet. Lenny could see the trace of a person's foot that poked out from underneath the sheet were it hung over the ground. Blood stained everything in the immediate vicinity.

"And then we found the wife here…where she died," continued James, indicating the sheet-covered form. "We reckon she was attacked by at least two assailants- there's defensive wounds on her arms, but otherwise she didn't stand a chance. And then after that, they went upstairs and…killed the daughters."

Curiously, Lenny gripped one of the sheet corners, and slowly raised it up, so he could take a look at the wife's face-

He quickly dropped it again, stepping back and covering his face in disgust. "Was she-?"

"Yes, she was still alive when this happened," replied James grimly. "She was eaten alive by another human being."

"Who the hell could do this to someone?" asked Jeff, shaking his head in disgust. It was the same question everyone had been asking ever since the original murders had taken place.

"The very worst kind," replied James without pause, almost as though he were expecting that question. "One thing I've learned in this job is that mankind can commit all kinds of horrific deeds upon his fellow man: but the people who did this are some other kind of evil…like something inhuman."

"You can't be serious man," scoffed Jeff, shaking his head. "The people who did this are some messed-up cannibal freaks, simple as that."

Lenny paid little attention to the current conversation, as he walked into the kitchen, looking around the sheer white tiled walls and floor, now marked with deep red streaks. He stared at the bloody footprints that lead from the open back door and into the lounge, past his own feet. The footprints were uneven, a mess. He could probably make out two pairs of feet at least, one of them wearing shoes, and the other being barefoot. The tracks seemed to lead into the kitchen, and then back out as well, which showed that they probably came and went via the back garden, as James had mentioned to them before. Glancing out of the window, he saw another pair of forensic officers searching through the garden, another white sheet covering the dead form of Peter Faulkner lying in the middle of the lawn.

"I'm going to take a look outside Jeff," he announced, stepping through the back door.

"Don't go too far," called Jeff back, still talking with James and taking notes down on a small notepad.

The backyard was surprisingly well-kept for an inner-city garden, with a few scattered child's toys here and there, a stark reminder of who used to live here, stolen away by the sheer wickedness in the world. He stared at the covered body a few moments, noting the exposed arm that was poking out of the side closest to him. An obscene amount of blood coated the skin, and the back of the hand had been torn into pretty badly by human teeth- a blood mess, in short. One of the forensic personnel noted this, and quickly pulled the sheet over the exposed limb.

Lenny glanced around again, noticing the red smears on the lawn, leading from the large gap in the fence at the far end of the garden area towards the open kitchen door. The stains seemed to suggest that someone or something was dragged towards the back door, rather than the more traditional method of just walking. Was someone wounded when they came here? It could have been the father trying to get back inside after being initially attacked, but his body was in the wrong position to suggest that. What kind of murderer dragged their feet when going in for the kill?

He walked up to the covered body, nodding at the forensics guys as they glanced up at him. "So is this the father then?" he asked, though the answer seemed obvious.

"That's right," nodded the first one. "Or rather, what's left of him."

"They made a right mess of him," said the second one, as he took a few pictures of the bloodstains around the body. "Witnesses said they heard him screaming like he was on fire."

"But did anyone see who did this?" asked Lenny, taking some more notes down.

"One witness says they saw a pair of men walking through the fence into that alleyway," said the second officer, pointing towards the large gap in the fence not too far away from them. "He shouted after them but they just ignored him. No-one else saw them, and they were long gone by the time the emergency services got here."

"Allright, thanks guys," nodded Lenny, walking over to the fence. The wire had been torn open with sheer brute force, by the looks of it, and the perimeter of the tear was covered in thick globules of what looked like blood, the faint trace of copper still in the air.

"Coagulated blood," said one of the forensic guys behind Lenny all of a sudden. "Left behind by one of the attackers I presume."

"But doesn't blood only coagulate when you die?" asked Lenny, confused.

"That's correct," nodded the other guy, "so maybe it's from a previous victim. But we've already sent samples back to our lab to do an analysis of all the blood samples we've found in the house."

"That's good," nodded Lenny, standing up. "Could you get me and my partner a copy of the results when that's all done, so we can do a complete report?"

"Yeah, of course," nodded the forensic officer.

"Thanks again," nodded Lenny, making his way back to the house, still jotting down on the pad.

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Jeff slammed the door of the cruiser shut, pulling on his seat belt as well.

"Geez, what a mess," he sighed, looking over the notes he had made. He'd been into the kid's bedroom, seen what those bastards had done to them…it made him want to throw up. He was glad Lenny didn't see that, especially since he was the one with a family himself. No-one deserved to see anything like that in their lifetime.

"You can say that again," replied Lenny, pulling his own seat belt on. "The forensics guys are going to forward us a copy of the blood results once they're finished on this case…they believe the killers left something behind."

"Well at least that's something good," replied Jeff, rubbing his tired eyes. "Come on, I could murder a cup of black coffee right about now."

"Sounds good," smiled Lenny as he turned the key, firing up the engine.

"Excuse me, sir?" said a tiny, timid voice from somewhere nearby. Jeff turned his head to see a young girl, about 8 years old, her blonde hair in pigtails, standing on the sidewalk just next to them. "Did you find out who hurt Charlotte and Katie?"

_Oh God, _thought Lenny, his heart breaking.

"It's just that they were good friends of mine," the girl continued, her head lowered shyly. "So now I don't know who I can play with now…"

"Don't worry sweetheart," smiled Jeff, giving his most charming smile. "We'll find who did this, promise."

"But my daddy says we can't rely on you anymore," the girl then added. "He says the police should stick to eating doughnuts."

Jeff's face crumbled, and he glanced at his partner, his expression crestfallen. This was exactly that they'd talked about before. Chief Irons wasn't being assertive enough, and now the people were losing faith in their own police force.

"Hey, you tell your dad that we'll find the people that hurt your friends, allright?" Jeff then said, turning back to the young girl and smiling again. "We'll make sure they don't hurt anyone else, OK?"

"That would be nice," the girl smiled. "Thank you, Mr police officer."

"Hey, just call me Jeff, OK?" laughed Jeff back in response. "What's your name?"

"It's Annie," giggled the girl back, trying to hide a shy smile. "Thank you so much, Mr Jeff."

"It's allright Annie," smiled Jeff again, "it's my job to help. But I need to go now Annie. You take care now, you hear?"

"I will," she giggled back. "Bye-bye Mr Jeff." She waved at him, still smiling, as Lenny pulled away from the kerb, still grinning at his partner's antics.

"I don't know why you keep telling me otherwise, but you'd make a great dad," smiled Lenny, as they turned back onto one of the main city roads.

"Hey, you think I've got time to settle down with someone nowadays?" asked Jeff jokingly. "I prefer a bachelor lifestyle myself."

"Well I found time to settle down with someone," replied Lenny.

"Oh, well good for you," replied Jeff in a jokey, high-pitched voice, causing Lenny to laugh out loud, taking his eyes off the road for a couple of seconds. Suddenly, Jeff lurched forward, his eyes wide.

"LENNY LOOK OUT!"

There was a loud shriek as Lenny slammed on the breaks of the cruiser, narrowly avoiding running down a homeless bum who happened to be crossing the street before them. The man, a ragged mess with a long beard and wearing an old army jacket, just slowly turned to look at them, as if only registering them now.

"What the hell's wrong with you?!" yelled Jeff, leaning out the window and shaking his hand at the bum, who seemed to be miles away. "Didn't your mother teach you to look both ways before crossing the street?!" The bum didn't reply, he just took a few more steps off to the side, out of the cruiser's path.

"Thank you!" yelled Jeff, as Lenny put his foot down and the cruiser sped away down the street again, turning a corner and disappearing from view.

The bum took several more steps onto the sidewalk, his gait unsteady, and he had to stop and lean against the wall to catch his breath, even though he'd only walked about one block in the last 5 minutes. He coughed, harshly, and a spot of blood came up with his phlegm. He stared at the red spot on the pavement for a couple of seconds, thinking that it was strange he didn't have the usual hankering for alcohol he normally developed around this time.

All he could think of now was how hungry he felt…

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Some hours later, Lenny was stood outside the door into Chief Irons' office. Downstairs, Jeff was finishing off the report for the Faulkner murder case, so he'd come up here to see if he could do his good deed for the day, for the sake of the whole precinct. It wouldn't be easy though: he'd dealt with the Chief a couple of times before, and each time wasn't a very pleasant experience. His fist faltered in the air just away from the wood a few seconds, but then he finally made his decision and rapped on the wood loudly.

"Come in," came the chief's muffled voice after a few seconds, and Lenny pushed through into the Chief's office.

It was a small but well-furnished room, with a fine Persian rug on the ground, expensive leather chairs around a small coffee table, and a huge oak desk at the far side of the room, before another dubious work of 'art' that hung on the wall behind it. The wall to the right of the desk was taken up with a number of stuffed animal heads and other posed animals, including a hawk perched atop of a branch, ready to strike. Taxidermy was one of the chief's old hobbies, and in fact he had a storage room full of other posed trophies for that old hobby: Lenny had to admit that he was impressed when he saw the magnificent stuffed tiger kept in the room near to the chief's office. But still, the glassy eyes of the stuffed animals filled him with some amount of unease.

Chief Brian Irons himself was sat at his desk, filling out another mountain of paperwork, not looking up at all yet. He was a podgy man in his mid forties, a stiff moustache on his upper lip, the official police uniform he was wearing a little too small for his girth. He had been a decorated member of the police force, ever since he started out on the bottom rung of the ladder, working his way up to chief, though Lenny had only heard of these great deeds from the older officers and from what he read in the old newspaper stories in the archive room. Several of his commendations littered the office as well.

Though of course, the unpleasant individual Lenny had come to know in the last few years didn't seem like some great protector of the peace. His temper was notoriously short, some even said he were unhinged. There was even a rumour flying about that he was accused of rape during his time at university, but of course, there was no concrete evidence of that either.

The chief finally looked up, and seemed to relax when he saw Lenny standing there. "Ah, officer Bristol, how can I help you today?"

"Well sir, it's just-"

"And don't keep me too long," the chief then added, controlled tension in his tone, his hands clasped on the desk before him. "I do have other duties to attend to." He smiled after that, the way a lion might smile before it devoured its next meal. From what the chief's secretary had told him, he'd just come from a press meeting (and about time too), and it hadn't exactly left him in the best mood either: press conferences didn't.

Lenny considered his choice of words before continuing. "Well chief, I just came from the Faulkner home-"

"Ah yes, such a damned shame, what happened to that family," the chief interrupted suddenly, but his tone sounded…false almost?

"-well yes, but it seems as though the people are losing faith in us, Chief."

"Well whatever do you mean by that?" asked the Chief, laughing. The laughter got Lenny as well…it sounded forced, or maybe it had a touch of insanity in it. Lenny was starting to feel uneasy just standing there now, but he continued again. He was already standing in the room, might as well go the whole hog.

"They think we're not doing enough to stop these murders," he explained. "That we're incompetent, we can't be relied on to do anything useful."

"So what is it you're trying to say, Bristol?"

"I'm not telling you how to do your job, Chief-"

"Good," snapped Irons suddenly, his tone a lot more hostile.

"-but some of us feel as though you're not doing enough about these murders to convince the people that it's safe to walk the streets at night. Some of us are dead on our feet trying to keep things controlled." Lenny took a breath as he finished his statement. There was no taking it back now.

Irons continued to stare at him for a few more seconds, before his face broke out into a smile. "While your concern is admirable Officer Bristol, I can assure you that I'm doing all that is in my power to tackle this threat head-on," he then said, in careful, measures tones. "This is an unusual case, granted, but I won't allow any more deaths to happen in this fair city, not on my watch."

"That's all well and good sir," replied Lenny, "but the press conference you just held, some have said you should have been doing those conferences every other day, and to be fair, I'm inclined to agree with them." Irons just continued to stare up at Lenny, rolling his tongue around inside his mouth.

"With all due respect Officer Bristol, you should worry about your own prescribed duties."

"With all due respect, Chief," replied Lenny, a little more firm, "but this affects every one of us. And I don't want to just stand by while the people of this city think we can't do our job properly-"

Irons suddenly rose to his feet, slamming his fists on the desk top, the sudden sound and movement causing Lenny to jump in surprise.

"I SAID FUCKING LEAVE IT BRISTOL!" Chief Irons roared, spittle flying onto the front of Lenny's shirt, who opened his mouth to say something else, but was silenced when Irons stabbed a finger at him, continuing his tirade.

"You're a good officer and a fine character Lenny, I'll give you that," he said, the anger in his tone clear. "But if you don't mind your own business, I'll have you marched out of this force so fast your feet won't even touch the ground!"

"What, even a decorated hero like myself?" asked Lenny, his calm composure lost now after the chief had just screamed at him. "The rest of the force wouldn't stand for it."

"The rest of the force can go to hell, as far as I'm concerned!" yelled Irons, unrepentant. "This is my force, my precinct! I the am chief of police, not you or anyone else, and I'll do as I wish!"

Lenny just stared as the chief continued to scream at him. Behaviour like this wasn't unusual with Brian Irons, but threatening to have him marched out the force, that was an al-new ball game. The stress of the whole cannibal murders situation must have really been getting to him.

"You're as bad as Redfield and the others," he then growled, sitting back down. He was referring to Chris Redfield, point man with the elite S.T.A.R.S team of the R.P.D…until they had been disbanded after the fiasco back in July.

Following the initial wake of cannibal murders, the S.T.A.R.S were deployed to investigate the Arklay forest region, and of the 12 initial members of the entire team, only 5 of them had returned alive. And with them they bought wild, outlandish tales of flesh-eating monsters that were lurking in the forest, stories of all kinds of horrendous monsters, and accusations that Umbrella Inc were the ones behind it all. But of course, there was no evidence to back up their wild claims, and they became the laughing stock of the station. Lenny and Jeff had even joined in with the jokes, but now he felt kind of bad for what had happened. The S.T.A.R.S had tried to run their own inquiries into Umbrella, but Chief Irons had stonewalled their enquiries, and in the end he had disbanded them and had them suspended from duty, indefinitely. In other words, he just washed his hands of them.

"What, are you still here?" asked Irons suddenly, getting Lenny's attention. "Get the hell out of my sight!"

"With pleasure," muttered Lenny under his breath, leaving through the door behind him.

He had barely left when Brian Irons dropped his pen onto the table and sighed in annoyance, running a hand through what hair he had left. Even his own officers were starting to doubt his methods.

_But it won't matter for much longer…soon they'll all be dead._

He knew fine well what these cannibal murders were: it was the cause of Umbrella, it was all their fault. He had done so much for them over the last 5 years, and this was how they repaid his unwavering loyalty? They initiated this 'biohazard', his contact had referred to it as, and then left him and his officers to pick up the pieces.

Those callous bastards…they said they offer him power beyond his wildest dreams: the seat of the mayor of Raccoon City itself. And now all those dreams were dashed before him.

He opened the top drawer of his desk, withdrawing the large calibre handgun he kept stored there. Things might have looked desperate for all involved, but if things were going to turn out that way, he could at least afford himself some fun while he was at it. He stroked his moustache thoughtfully.

_If I have to die…then I'll take everyone else with me!_

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"Asshole!" growled Lenny, dropping into his seat in the East Office.

"Who?" asked Jeff, looking up from his finalised report.

"That fat prick Irons, that's who!" snapped Lenny back, still annoyed after his little encounter with his boss.

"I take it your little chat with him didn't go too well then?" said Jeff, putting the report to the side.

"He threatened to have me drummed off the force!" replied Lenny, shaking his head. "Just because I was trying to give him an idea of what the mood was with the public, trying to be helpful…the rod up his ass must be a mile wide!"

"You can say that again," laughed Fred, the officer sat at the desk just next to them. The jokes about Chief Irons could be written on a list a mile long.

"Irons was never the best man at taking suggestions," added Jeff, smiling slightly. "You tried at least, do don't feel too discouraged, allright?"

"Easy for you to say," muttered Lenny. "He must have really gotten out the wrong side of bed this morning." Then he looked at his desk and picked up a brown file with 'Faulkner Family Case' written on the small tab on the side of it. "This is my copy of the report?" he then asked.

"That's right," answered Jeff. "Just need to wait for forensics to finish their blood report, and then we're all set. Speaking of which-"

They both glanced up to see that forensics officer from the Faulkner place, James, approaching them, a file in his hand. He looked rather out of place when not wearing his full-body glove, thought Lenny.

"Here, I got you your blood report," he said, dropping two copies of a file onto the desk, one for Jeff and one for Lenny. "I think you'd agree that the results are rather interesting."

"And why's that?" asked Jeff, glancing over his copy. As far as he was concerned, all this forensic talk was double-dutch to him.

"Because some of the blood samples we found were from known previous victims of this cannibal cult," explained James, "and something else too…"

"What's that?" asked Lenny.

"One of the blood samples belonged to a one Roger Smith, one of the suspects for the case, I presume?"

"That's correct," nodded Lenny. "We've found his blood at nearly every crime scene involving a cannibal murder."

"Well, the thing is," added James, sounding somewhat guilty as he spoke, "the blood sample for him that we found was coagulated…which only happens when a person dies."

"Seriously?" asked Jeff, sitting up. "How can a dead guy keep walking around and commit these murders?"

"Beats me," shrugged Lenny. "All I know is, this man is the only solid lead we've got for this case at the moment. Maybe someone killed him and they're trying to set him up, or he really is a dead man walking."

"That's impossible man," scoffed Jeff, shaking his head.

"There's a first time for everything," added James from out of the blue, but the look he got from the pair of officers made him stop. "But anyway, I'm needed back at the lab, so if you'll excuse me guys…"

"Yeah sure, don't let us hold you," said Jeff, waving his hand absent-mindedly, and the forensics officer turned and walked out of the room, as Lenny pinned his copy of the blood results in with the overall case report, making sure it was all in good order. "So then doctor," added Jeff, joking about, "what's your diagnosis of this whole case?"

"Some fucked-up people in this world," was all Lenny said, shaking his head sadly. "Excuse me, I need to get this to Marvin," he then said, getting to his feet and leaving the office the same way James had just done previously.

As he walked the east wing corridor and out into the main hall, some things were still running through his mind. Their suspect had been at this murder scene, in some form or the other: his blood was there, but it was in coagulated form, so how could a dead man walk around and commit murders? Unless someone had taken him, killed him, and had then started to use his blood as an effort to throw a spanner into the investigation…when they had searched Smith's apartment, it had been ransacked, showing clear signs of a struggle, so maybe he was taken to be used as a scapegoat.

But the only way to know that for sure was to find Roger Smith himself…and that was the second part of the problem, since he had no family in Raccoon City, and few friends that knew his schedule well enough to give them an idea of where he was.

Lenny sighed as he crossed the marble floor of the main hall. There was still quite a few hours left in this day.

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Some hours later, Lenny Bristol stepped through his front door, letting it close behind him. He sighed deeply and ran his hands through his hair. Right about now, it was only 6 in the afternoon, but his bed seemed really tempting right about now.

"Honey? Is that you?" called Anna's voice from out of sight.

"Yeah, it's me," he replied weakly, stepping through into the living room. His wife was already sat on the couch, the TV playing the dinner time news. She was still wearing her white doctor's coat, looking exhausted, as Sasha lay at her feet, sleeping contently.

"Hey there," she said, with a weak smile, as he moved over and sat down beside her. "How was your day?"

"Long," he said, rubbing his eyes, "and hard…I was at the Faulkner home this morning. Her face darkened.

"You mean-?"

"Yes, the most recent murder site," he nodded. "Trust me Anna, it was heartbreaking. Those poor girls…whoever did that to them doesn't deserve a fair trial. They need to be strung up by the neck."

"Which is why you're going to find whoever did this, and you'll make sure they get what they deserve," she replied encouragingly, holding his arm carefully.

"Well it feels like it won't matter either way," he replied glumly, shaking his head. There was silence for a few seconds, aside from the background noise of the TV set, so he broke it instead. "How's our boy doing?"

"Exhausted," replied Anna, smiling. "He's in bed now…didn't even get to hear one of his father's bedtime tales."

"Oh dear, we can't have that now can we?" he smiled, feeling somewhat better after the current day's events. "I'll have to make that up for him tomorrow…two tales for the price of one."

"You spoil that boy for sure," laughed Anna back, holding his hand tightly, and then noticing a story on the TV. "Hey, is that what you were talking about before?"

He glanced up to see the current story on the screen reading 'Murder death toll rises to 12', and an exterior view of the Faulkner household, the crowd of civilians gathered outside of it, held back by the police tape and officers, the same ones that Lenny and Jeff had passed by on their previous visit there, just as a voiceover was heard.

"Another happy family was torn apart today, as Peter Faulkner and his family were found brutally murdered at their home on Birch Road, the latest in the long line of horrific cannibal murders that have plagued Raccoon County for some months now, and show no sign of stopping," announced the voiceover. "And Raccoon City's finest are still remaining tight-lipped on any progress in the overall case…"

The screen changed to show a very familiar scene: a pair of R.P.D officers getting out of their cruiser and approaching the camera.

"Excuse, can either of you-" started the reporter but he was cut off by one of the officers, a short red-headed man with a toothpick clenched between his teeth.

"No comment," he said harshly, putting his hand up in front of the camera lens.

"Oh, who's that handsome guy there?" asked Anna suddenly, pointing towards the dark-haired officer who was ignoring the camera for the most part as he walked up the garden path. Lenny groaned and rubbed his face.

"I never was any good on TV," he muttered sheepishly, causing his wife to laugh at his misfortune.

"Don't worry, you'll always be my star," she teased.

"Well that's comforting," he said with a sarcastic laugh.

"Earlier today, Chief of Police Brian Irons issued a statement to the press from outside the R.P.D precinct building, calling for the public to remain calm during these turbulent times," the voiceover then said, and the scene cut to the view of the yard outside the R.P.D building.

Chief Irons, wearing his official police uniform, stood behind a wooden podium loaded with numerous microphones of the various news stations in the city, as flashbulbs went off all around him. He was flanked by two more officers in official uniform, who Lenny recognised as Marvin Branagh and Sergeant Neil Carlsen.

Lenny scowled when he saw Irons' smug face. That incident in the Chief's office was still fresh in the back of his mind. Sasha seemed to pick up on her master's bad mood, and sat up, growling at the screen in a low manner.

"People of Raccoon City," the chief said suddenly, raising his arms either side of him. "I know you are all on edge due to the increasing number of attacks within the city, but I assure you, the officers of the Raccoon Police Department, and our SWAT operatives are working around the clock to make sure that you are all able to sleep safe in your beds at night."

The Chief took a breath and wiped his brow free of sweat before he continued.

"But for the sake of your own personal safety, I urge you all to remain in your homes at night, and not to linger in dark areas of the city. We are being attacked from within, and we shall not allow our foe to best us." Lenny wanted to laugh out loud hearing this 'statement'. The Chief needed to hire a better scriptwriter.

"Your Chief certainly has a way with words," said Anna, not noticing her husband's displease.

"That is all, thank you," said Chief Irons suddenly, preparing to step down from the podium. "Once more I urge you to remain strong during this turbulent time, thank you!" And with that, he stepped down and walked away, as the flashbulbs went off in a more intense fashion.

Lenny clicked the TV set off, shaking his head. "He should have been doing statements like that since this whole mess began…why the hell has he been dragging his heels lately?"

"You sound as though you could be chief," said Anna suddenly, getting his attention.

"I'm not the only one who feels that way, trust me," he replied, shaking his head. "He didn't take my advice very well today…told me to mind my own business, but this affects all of us, so it is my business."

"What happened?" his wife asked, curiously.

"He told me very clearly to mind my own business," said Lenny calmly. "And then he said if I didn't he'd have me struck off the force. I seriously wanted to punch him on the nose, trust me."

"He said that?" asked Anna, surprised. "And you let him talk to you like that?"

"He's my boss, I didn't have a much of a choice," sighed Lenny. "He was always a dick, but he's gotten really bad lately…this whole mess must be stressing him out badly."

"Anyone would be stressed out, considering," she pointed out.

"I suppose," he replied, shaking his head. And then he perked up suddenly, turning to face her. "But enough about me. How was your day?"

"Don't ask," she replied, turning away from him. "We had two more people in with the same symptoms…"

"The symptoms?" he asked, knowing what she was talking about.

"Yes, all the same," she replied. "The nausea, the coughing fits, the constant scratching…it's just a matter of time until they're down in the morgue as well." Lenny frowned.

Lately the hospital had been experiencing a lot of patients experiencing a number of symptoms for some unusual affliction that none of the staff had been able to identify yet. Everyone that came down with this 'disease'- and disease seemed an apt word- would die sooner or later, depending on how strong their body was. Even the most physically fit patients would only last for about a week or so, before their bodies suddenly shut down unexpectedly.

"Hey, don't talk like that, you'll help them out, trust me," he said, putting an encouraging arm around her shoulders. "Just like all those other people you've saved, right?" He made eye contact with her and smiled, that goofy, almost-awkward smile she had fallen for all those years ago. She smiled back at him.

"Yeah…you're right," she replied. "We'll find a way to help them out…them and everyone else who's suffering."

"That's the spirit," he smiled, squeezing her hand encouragingly.

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Though unbeknownst to the Bristol clan and every other citizen of Raccoon City, things weren't going to get any better in the near future.

For the last 2 months, a deadly virus had been working its way into the city, as is spread from the sight of the initial outbreak encountered back in May time. Despite all the preventative measures put into place by the virus' creator, the inevitable couldn't be prevented.

Raccoon City's fate was already sealed.

**A/N: And so Raccoon City's doom begins, unbeknownst to its poor civilians…**

**So this is a classic 'setting the scene' chapter, with a cameo from someone familiar for those who've read 'The Fall of Raccoon' at all. The next chapter will up things in the panic stakes considerably and also introduce a few of the other characters to feature in the story hopefully. But in the mean time, keep tuned for new updates, both from this story and from TFOR.**


	2. A Deadly Game

Chapter 2: A Deadly Game

**September 26****th****, 1115 hours**

It started off as a pleasant day in Raccoon City. Despite the grisly cannibal murders, that hung like a spectre over the entire town, everyone was still abuzz due to the big game that was happening today, the Raccoon Sharks, who had demolished the opposition in their journey to the finals of the Mid-West Championship, were playing against the Old Court Thunders, the reigning champions for the last 3 years. This was already shaping up to be a historical day in sporting history, all the sports journalists were saying.

For Lenny Bristol, he would get to witness that game…in a fashion. Himself, Jeff, and about a dozen other R.P.D officers would be on site at the stadium, acting as extra security since the fans were likely to get very rowdy: there was no love lost between the fans of the Sharks and the Thunders. Anna was still due to work today, so he had wished her goodbye that morning before he headed off to the station, to get changed and then to head for the Warren Stadium before the game started. It wasn't due to start until mid-day, but the fans would be arriving in their droves well before then.

Although unfortunately for most people involved, today was destined to end in a rather more brutal fashion.

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High up on the top floor of Umbrella Incorporated's Raccoon City HQ, an immense structure formed from glass and steel, a lone, frail figure sat in a wheelchair, looking out over the city that had been the company's US base of operations for the last 40 years. The figure was an elderly man with a frail frame, in his mid 80's at the most, his hair pure artic white. A pair of thin cables lead from a small steel box set into his wheelchair and into the side of his skull, a form of life support system, keeping the aged man alive.

He was Ozwell E. Spencer, esteemed founder of Umbrella Inc, and its original, and still current, CEO. Born into a noble family in England, he proved to be a genius of biological science, graduating ahead of his peers at the top of his class at university. Then alongside James Marcus and Edward Ashford, themselves also scientific geniuses, the three of them had headed a project that researched the effects of the Ebola virus, which had been devastating the country of Africa for some years, but in doing so their fates lead to a rather more different conclusion.

The three of them became the founders of Umbrella Incorporate, one of the most prestigious pharmaceutical companies known the world over, with bases of operations in most of the world's major cities, heading advances into countless medical and pharmaceutical developments. It was Umbrella that found the cures for at least a dozen strains of lethal viruses, after all, and it was Umbrella who had developed a form of automated surgery technology, capable to carrying out the most extreme invasive surgery without any possible danger to the patient. It had even been theorized that Umbrella would eventually develop a cure for the common cold.

But that was only the public face of Umbrella. There was a second, much more sinister face of the company, one that the public was blissfully unaware of: and now that sinister face would possibly destroy the entire city, and maybe even the company itself.

Spencer wondered what Ashford and Marcus would say if they were still here. Ashford would likely call him an old fool: he had intended to use Umbrella to further countless advances in medicine, to use their discovery in Africa for good. But that same discovery had taken the poor man's life before his dream could be realised. And Marcus…he would likely laugh in Spencer's face. Before his untimely 'retirement' from the company, he had warned Spencer that it would come to this. Maybe he was right. Perhaps things were destined to end this way…they were playing with fire, and it would only be so long before they all got burnt.

But in his mind, Spencer secretly wanted something such as this to happen. Imagine the research potential, he would always tell himself…

"Lord Spencer?" asked a voice from behind him. Reaching for the control stick on his wheelchair, Spencer turned to face towards the entrance doors of his office, where a quartet of tall men in black polo-neck sweaters and with shaven hair stood in the doorway, his personal bodyguards.

"Yes?" asked Spencer, his voice barely a whisper, but still a voice that carried considerable authority.

"The helicopter is prepped and ready for you sir," explained one of them. "Where is it you wish to go?"

"Our base in New York," wheezed Spencer, using the control stick to guide himself towards the open doors. "We must gather ourselves and face this coming storm together."

"Lord Spencer, I have already informed the board of directors," informed one of the CEO's smartly-dressed personal assistants, breezing into view with a file under one arm. "They're already on their way to New York as we speak."

"Excellent," said Spencer as he passed through into the huge corridor beyond, his bodyguard contingent following after him.

"But sir, what of the other staff?" asked the PA suddenly.

"What of them?" asked Spencer, turning towards his assistant.

"Well…shouldn't we evacuate the building? Or at least warn them of the danger?"

"There is little point," said Spencer, turning away. "This city is already doomed, so there is no point in warning every single member of staff present."

"But sir, if you do that, you're signing their death warrants-"

Spencer whirled on the PA suddenly, his face showing annoyance.

"Are you disobeying me?" he asked, venomously.

"Lord Spencer," said the assistant with a nervous laugh, "we can't just leave everyone here to die-"

"The company must live on," said Spencer abruptly. "And that means we all need to be strong. Raccoon City is a lost cause, trust me, and we cannot dwell on the trivial details of each individual person to be left behind. We need to focus on the future, not worry about the present."

"So…what of the others?" asked the PA nervously.

"We continue as planned," replied Spencer, turning away. "Leave everyone else behind."

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"Sharks! Sharks! Sharks'll eat you alive!" chanted the group of football fans as they marched down the street towards the entrance to the Raccoon Stadium, dressed in the blue and white jerseys of their team, the image of a shark going in for the kill embossed on the back of each jersey. Hundreds who had already arrived thronged around the entrance, as the staff worked as hard as possible to admit them all in good time. Several security guards and a few R.P.D officers were also there, trying to direct the crowd as best they could, but it was like trying to herd a swarm of buffalo.

Among the Shark's fans were people in black and red jerseys with the design of a thunderbolt on, fans of the Old Court Thunders, coming out to support their team as any good fan would do. So far there had been no trouble, but the resentment was simmering on the surface: in the form of numerous insulting chants directed at the opposing team's fans, and the dirty glances that were shared, but most of it was in good fun. It was only later, once some people had drunk several cups of beer that things would likely get ugly.

From a dark alleyway just beyond the stadium's rear loading bay, a lone man watched the scene unfold, leaning heavily against the wall. He wore a white shirt and dark grey jeans with white sneakers, clearly not a football fan…and his being here wasn't anything to do with football. He held a hand over his left arm, at the spot where a grisly bite wound continued to pour with his blood. He had barely managed to get away from that crazed man that had come after him just previously, the ragged man with the wild hair and the disturbing, milk-coloured eyes. The man who had shown no mercy as he had lunged at him and torn a mouthful of flesh out in an instant.

That had been 5 minutes ago, and right now he needed to find some medical aid desperately. He was feeling nauseous and faint…he had felt the same way when he had first woken up that morning, but now after that attack he felt about 5 times worse.

He groaned in pain, before pushing himself off of the wall and stumbling towards the loading bay, still clutching his wound, his entire arm now stained with deep crimson. His skin was deathly pale now, sweat running off his brow as he walked unsteadily. He groaned again, this time his groan sounding like a person's last dying breath.

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The steady chanting of the fans from above could be heard, hundreds of voices raised at once, in the Sharks' official chant.

"Sharks'll eat you alive! Sharks'll eat you alive! Sharks'll eat you alive!"

"Damned right the sharks'll eat you alive!" laughed Jeff Danson, punching the air slightly, before receiving a funny look from Lenny and a couple of nearby security guards.

"You know we're here on official police business, right?" asked Lenny, with a raised eyebrow. "I don't think Chief Irons would appreciate it if he heard that you joined in with the crowd chanting."

"Oh come on Lenny, when they told me that I'd be at the game it got me all excited, but of course if I knew that I'd be stuck down here I would have taken the day off instead and come along!" groaned Jeff, shaking his head sadly. Jeff apparently had it on good authority that at least a few of the R.P.D officers had taken a 'sick day' off, just to come see the game, and now he wished he had done the same. Lenny just couldn't help but grin at his partner's annoyance.

"But I can still support my local team in another way," he then added, unbuttoning his shirt to reveal that he was wearing his Raccoon Sharks shirt over his Kevlar vest. He grinned slightly, as Lenny just laughed out loud and shook his head.

"There's no stopping you is there?" he asked, as Jeff buttoned his shirt back up.

They were currently stood on guard in one of the underground passages that was below the stadium's seating areas, leading to and from the team's changing rooms and the other rooms that were off limit to the public, including the VIP area and the maintenance wing. Somewhere behind them, another pair of fellow officers stood guard just outside the doors into the stadium's rear loading dock, which was currently empty aside from the Thunders' team bus and several trucks that had bought considerable amounts of refreshments down for the game. Several standard security guards also milled around, talking to one another via their short-range radios.

"Nearly time for the game to start though," observed Lenny, as he heard a bustling sound from somewhere nearby. Further down the corridor, one of the doors opened up and the Raccoon Sharks themselves emerged, already dressed in their blue and white football uniforms, their helmets hanging from their open hands as they laughed and cheered one another on, some of them putting their gum shields in. At the head of the line was a huge man, blonde haired and blue eyed, at least six foot two inches tall, his handsome face looking as though it were carved from granite.

He was Hugo Chaser, the Sharks' star player, a man known for his unstoppable force on the field, and his speed, unusual for a man of his size. Needless to say, he was something of a legend in local sporting talk, a man destined for greatness, they all said.

"Oh geez, never though I'd be this close to Hugo Chaser," said Jeff quietly, his voice full of wonder, as the star player put in his bright red gum shield and strapped on his helmet soon afterwards.

"There's a first time for everything," ginned Lenny, as the Sharks were finished getting themselves ready and they moved off, disappearing down the ramp that would lead onto the playing field. "Who knows, maybe you can ask for his autograph later on?"

Though Jeff would never get that chance in the end.

Up above, the greeting roar of the home crowd was heard, enough to almost bring the walls down. Over all of it, Lenny almost didn't hear his cell phone ringing. He quickly stepped off to the side and snapped it open to see Anna's name displayed as the caller ID. Smiling slightly, he pressed the talk button and held it to his ear.

"Yeah honey?" he cried, over the constant shouting from somewhere above him.

"Lenny, some of your colleagues are here at the hospital now," she explained, sounding somewhat worried.

"What? Why?" asked Lenny, as some stadium staff passed by him.

"Well…it looks like someone stole some bodies from the morgue," his wife explained.

"What?!" he asked, shocked. Jeff gave him a concerned glance, after hearing his friend's raised voice.

"Y-yes," she replied, sounding a little shaken. "About half a dozen bodies have gone missing, but that's not the strangest part."

"Oh great, and what's that?" asked Lenny.

"All of the missing bodies are the recent cannibal murder victims," replied Anna, "and among them were Peter Faulkner and his wife, the two from yesterday."

All of this hit Lenny in the face like a hail of bricks. He was silent for a minute or so while he let it sink in. It was bad enough that murders were happening, and now someone was stealing the bodies of the victims? This freak show was getting more and more bizarre over time. He rubbed his face.

"Allright…who's there?" he asked.

"Albert is," Anna replied. Lenny smiled. She must have meant Albert Jackson, one of the veteran officers who had become one of Lenny's firm friends during his career with the R.P.D. So things were in safe hands if Albert was there.

"That's good to hear," Lenny replied. "Look, I'm at the stadium at the moment, but I'll give you a call once things have quietened down a little, allright?" The roar of the crowd from above was heard as if to prove his point, and he heard Anna laughing slightly on the other end. "You gonna be OK?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine," she replied. "Take care honey."

"You too," he smiled, as she hung up. With that done, he walked back over to stand beside Jeff, the unease on his face evident.

"Everything allright?" he asked, concerned.

"Half a dozen bodies were stolen from Raccoon General last night," Lenny explained. "And they were all previous cannibal murder victims."

"Seriously?!" asked Jeff, in shock. "Jesus Christ…"

"Albert and a few others are there right now, so things should be fine for now," Lenny continued. "Come on, we're needed in the foyer, anyways. You know that's where the fans usually clash."

"Oh joy, booze-soaked jerks to break up," muttered Jeff, as he and his partner set off for the foyer, as the Sharks' fans cheered their team on from above.

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Anna Bristol sighed as she dropped her cell phone back into the pocket of her doctor's coat and glanced around at the sight before her. She was currently standing in the doorway of the hospital morgue, the cold brick walls lined with row upon row of shelves for dozens of bodies, and the middle of the room currently lined up with half a dozen steel tables, opened body bags laid out on top of each one, discarded carelessly like trash. A single uniformed police officer and a few forensic personnel occupied the room, examining for any clues.

After a few minutes, the uniformed officer, a grey-haired man with a kind face and broad shoulders turned and approached her. He was Albert Jackson, veteran member of the R.P.D, served on the force for nearly 25 years now, and one of the kindest men in the world. Anna had first met him at her and Lenny's wedding, and he had become a firm family friend over time.

"So, what's the verdict?" she asked, pre-empting his next statement.

"Well, to be fair, it's hard to make sense of," replied Albert, looking over his notes. "The only fingerprints we can find belong to the deceased, which makes sense considering where we are, and also those belonging to the morgue staff, and they've been cleared already. The weird part is that it looks as though the door was broken open from the _inside._"

They both glanced back at the morgue's open door, the lock broken and twisted out of its normal shape, clearly forced open with a fair amount of brute force, probably by someone wielding a sledgehammer.

"But who could've gotten inside here?" asked Anna. "That door is the only way into the morgue, and this place is underground, so how could anyone get down here?"

"Beats me," shrugged Albert. "I'm just telling you what I know, Anna. After all of the cannibal murders recently, this whole fiasco seems appropriate, wouldn't you say?"

"I'd say," she replied, scratching her nose. "Look, I should be getting back to work. There's been a lot of incoming patients recently. Thanks for everything Albert."

"Hey, it's no problem," smiled Albert in response. "Don't let us keep you: we shouldn't be too much longer either way."

"Thanks," she said again, smiling and walking out of the room, slipping past one of the other forensic officers there who was processing the broken open door itself. As she walked down the corridor back to the elevator, her mind was racing.

_Who would want to steal dead bodies at a time like this? Especially bodies of brutal murder victims, of all things? The people in this town are really going crazy right now. Maybe it'd be a good time to leave now? I mean, I don't want Lewis to be subjected to all of this crap…I wonder if Lenny sees things the same was as me?_

She stepped into the elevator, pressing the button for the ground floor, and the doors slid shut after a short pause.

_And now this 'disease' as well…we've already had four more people in showing the symptoms, and the day's barely started. And we're still no closer to figuring out whatever it is. Come to think of it, I think Richard might be coming down with it…__he's been looking like crap recently._

The sound of the lift door opening bought her back to the here and now. She stepped out into the staff rest room, which was currently empty, and approached her locker at the far end of the room. She opened it up, reaching into her pockets and removing her cell phone, since they weren't usually allowed in the vicinity of most of the hospital equipment anyhow. She placed it on the top shelf, along with her other personal items including her house and car keys. She stopped when she caught a glance of a picture pinned to the inside door of the locker.

It was a picture of her and Lenny from a year ago, when they spent one summer's day at Pine Lookout, a scenic retreat just outside of the city, frequented by plenty of people looking to spend some quality time away from the hustle and bustle of city life. She was beaming wide, her teeth on display, and he was smiling in that awkward manner of his, his mouth firmly shut. Behind both of them was a scenic view of Raccoon City at sunset, the sky staining the horizon a deep shade of orange. She smiled to herself at the memory of that day, one of the happiest days of her life, as far as she could recall.

_But we've had some happy memories in this town as well…it's not that easy to just up and move away from all of that._

The sound of her phone suddenly ringing broke her out of her review of the past. Quickly, she retrieved her cell phone from the locker shelf and looked at the screen. The caller ID was showing up as Lewis' School. She sighed as she pressed the answer button, wondering what could be happening now.

"Hello?"

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"You want a piece of me, fag?!"

"I'll beat your goddamn skull in from one side of this stadium to the next!"

"Bring it on, pussy boy!"

The two fans, one of wearing a Sharks jersey and the other wearing a Thunders jersey, both of them about the same age, in their late teens, squared up to one another in the centre of the stadium lobby. A crowd of other fans, Sharks and Thunders alike surrounded them, yelling and jeering them on, hoping to see a brawl taking place right in front of them. They were all young people, a lot of them partially inebriated. A few security guards stood by, hesitant to get directly involved, seemingly wanting to see a fight break out as well.

One of the fans raised his fist and swung a clumsy punch, which the other one quickly twisted away from, before he swung his own punch, striking his opponent in the jaw, twisting his head aside. The crowd offered up a small cheer, just as a pair of uniformed R.P.D officers suddenly pushed through the scrum, causing a stream of disappointed moans to come from the crowd.

"Break it up! Break it up!" yelled Jeff as he grabbed onto the one who had thrown the punch, the one in the Sharks jersey, while Lenny tended to the other young man in the Thunders jersey.

"Get your fucking hands off me, pig!" spat the Sharks fan, as he turned to face Jeff. The cop caught a sniff of the young man's breath, and he reeled away from him, wanting to be sick.

"Jesus, how much have you had to drink?" he asked after a deep breath. The man's breath had absolutely reeked of alcohol.

"None of your business!" slurred the young man, turning away. "Only six or so cans, officer…no more, no less…"

Lenny sighed from nearby as he observed the other man's bleeding lip. He'd live, but for the mean time he'd have a nice scar. Around them, the crowd jeered and booed, disappointed at not seeing a fight going down.

"I think you should all go and enjoy the game," he said eventually, looking around at them. Their voices rose up in protest, but Lenny stood his ground, before pointing his finger. "People come here to see some football and enjoy the game, not partake in random violence! I think you should all remember that before you take joy in something like this again. Now get out of our sight!"

The crowd moaned and protested in unison, before the majority of them turned and walked away towards the stand entrances, leaving the lobby mainly empty, but a few still remained, probably concerned friends of the two drunken fans the two officers were currently holding onto.

"Right, I think it's time you sobered up," suggested Jeff, helping the blonde man he held onto to stand up. He started to squirm in his grasp.

"Don't tell me what to do!" the man slurred, trying to slap Jeff in the face, but missing by about a mile as he flailed his hand around randomly. "Fucking pig…"

"I don't think your mama would approve of you using language like that, now come on!" Jeff continued, trying to move the drunken youth away towards the doors that lead to one of the back areas.

"I said get your fucking hands off me!" yelled the Sharks fan, ramming his elbow back. There was a crack as it caught Jeff in the side of the mouth, and the red-haired man fell back, clutching the spot where he had just been struck, letting go of the drunken youth as a result, who staggered around before raising his hand to go for another punch, it seemed.

"Right!" yelled Lenny, letting go of the Eagles fan he had been tending to, marching right up to the other youth, grabbing his shoulder, before pushing him face first into one of the many support pillars in the foyer, and slapping the handcuffs onto the young man, even as he struggled against it.

"What the hell you doing?!" slurred the young man in anger, but Lenny tightened the cuffs anyway, shutting him up in a yelp of sudden pain.

"You know, you could have let us sober you up and that'd be it," explained Lenny, "but now since you've assaulted a police officer, it's going to be a very long day for you! So now you don't get to see the game!" The anger in his voice was noticeable: they didn't need to put up with crap like this. Then he glanced up at Jeff, who was still holding a hand to his bruised jaw.

"You allright man?"

"I'll live, don't worry," Jeff said, as Lenny pushed the handcuffed youth into the waiting arms of a stadium security guard who had only just now decided to get directly involced.

"Take him down to the loading bay and put him in one of the vans, now!" he said forcefully, still sounding some what aggravated. "Just get him out of my sight!" The guard complied, dragging the inebriated youth away, who made no other effort to struggle. Lenny then looked around at the Thunders fan, still bleeding from the cut on his lower lip.

"You're not gonna lock me up now, are you mister?" he asked, somewhat pathetically. Lenny sighed as he shook his head.

"No, I'm willing to let you off with a caution this time," he said. "Go and enjoy the game. Just make sure I don't catch you in this kind of situation again." The young man just nodded slightly, before he quickly hurried off towards the stands, as a few more Sharks fans stood around, looking incredulous.

"So you arrest us but you don't arrest those damned Thunders jerks?" asked one of them, a middle-aged woman with her arms crossed across her chest. "So much for serving and protecting!" The people surrounding her rose up in shout of agreement.

"With all due respect, a Thunders fan didn't punch my colleague," replied Lenny defiantly, pointing at Jeff's bruised jaw. "Now do you want to split hairs or do you want to see the game? It's already been on for ten minutes." The crowd continued to stand and stare for a little while, and then finally they made their way to the stands, muttering to one another. It wasn't worth arguing the point anymore; their fellow fan had already been arrested.

"We don't need this crap," muttered Lenny, shaking his head. "We need to be out there, not in here babysitting a load of college kids who can't handle their drink!"

"Come on Lenny, I'm fine, honest," said Jeff reassuringly, standing up straight and putting a fresh tooth-pick between his teeth.

"No, I mean we should be out there finding those cannibal murderers, not standing around here acting as security!" continued Lenny. The last week or so had been pretty tough on all involved, and Lenny felt as though they should be out there finding who was doing these murders, rather than working on something completely unrelated and trivial. Jeff seemed to pick up on Lenny's discomfort, and said nothing more.

"Geez man, I'm sorry," said Jeff.

"Don't be, it's not your fault," sighed Lenny, rubbing his face, just as his cell phone started to ring suddenly. He pulled it out and saw his wife's name on the display screen, wondering what she wanted now. He pressed the answer key and lifted his phone to his ear.

"This is the police speaking, how can we help you today, madam?" he asked in a joking manner, the same way he used to do a lot of the time.

"Lenny, Lewis' school just called," she said hurriedly, ignoring his remark. "They say he's not feeling too well, so I have to go and pick him up."

Lenny's stomach contracted at the mention of the word 'ill'. Did she just mean he'd come down with a cold or flu? Or could it be that mystery illness that Anna had been seeing at the hospital wards recently? The one with a 100% death rate?

"Sick how?" he asked, a little shaky.

"They didn't say, they just said he wants to come home," replied Anna, still sounding hurried. "Look, I'm going to take the rest of the day off and look after him. Don't worry about us, we'll be fine. I'll call you later once we've settled down, allright?"

"Uh yeah, sure," replied Lenny, still a little shaky. "Listen, if anything happens, anything at all, you call me and let me know, allright?"

"Well of course, honey," she replied, sounding a little confused by his behaviour. "Look, I really need to go now, so I'll see you later, OK?"

"Yeah," he smiled. "Take care now."

"Love you," she said.

"Ditto," he replied with a small smile, and then the line was cut. He tucked the phone back into his pocket, sighing and running his hands through his hair.

"What's up?" asked Jeff from nearby.

"Lewis isn't feeling well, so Anna's taking him home," Lenny said, to the point.

"Oh dear," said Jeff in response.

"But she didn't say ill how," added Lenny. "Could he have that mystery illness she'd told me about a few times?"

"Hey, don't start jumping to conclusions before you knew the full story," said Jeff, trying to reassure his partner. "I know you're more reasonable than that."

The stadium became filled with the roar of the victorious home crowd from the stands above them.

"Sounds like Chaser just scored his first touch-down," beamed Jeff, and Lenny gave an approving smile back.

"Yeah, you're probably right. Come on, we need to check on the lower corridors."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Barry Hyde, a middle-aged security guard at the Warren Stadium, slammed the doors of the police van shut, the inebriated youth inside muttering incoherently as he paced about inside. The reek of alcohol continued to hang in the air even after he had been shut away from the world.

"Let me out man, I know my…my…my rights!" the youth slurred lazily.

"I don't get paid enough for this shit," muttered Barry, turning away from the closed van doors and looking around the loading bay.

It was a wide concrete expanse, save for the numerous parked vehicles there. Aside from the pair of black police riot vans, there were a few parked police cruisers as well, along with the huge black team bus for the Old Court Thunders, its driver currently leaning up against the side of one of the enormous tyres, smoking a cigarette. Inside were also the numerous refreshment vans and trucks, lined up and ready to be emptied in time for the first half interval.

"Let me out, I'll make it worth your while," muttered the drunken youth inside the police van.

"Shut up!" yelled Barry, walking away from the van and shaking his head. He always hated working the big games like this, since he ended up having to deal with dozens of drunken fools who couldn't hold their drink very well and resorted to brawling with everyone else instead.

He was about to reach the door that lead back into the maintenance corridors, when he glanced to his right and came to a halt when he saw an unusual sight. He saw a young man with dark hair, in dark grey jeans and a white shirt, walking slowly towards one of the other doors in the far corner of the loading bay, his head lowered.

"Hey buddy! This area's off-limits!" he cried, but the man took no notice of him, taking another unsteady, slow step towards the far door.

"Hey!" Barry yelled, louder than before, taking a step towards the intruder. "Are you deaf as well as stupid?!"

The man still ignored him.

"Oh for fuck's sake-" he muttered under his breath, before walking over towards the intruder, pulling out the can of mace spray all of the stadium security guards carried. He came up behind the man, failing to notice the rather horrific wound on his bare left arm. He came right up behind the man, grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling him around so they were face-to-face.

"Hey! Are you deaf as well as-"

Barry's words caught in his throat. He couldn't believe what he was seeing.

The man's young face was pale, unnaturally so, almost blizzard white in tone. His hand still on the man's shoulder, he noticed how cold the skin was to touch, like an artic blizzard. But it was the man's eyes that caught his attention the most: pale, white as the man's skin itself, with no trace of any human colour left, the barest trace of the black pupils somewhere behind the white. The man's face was completely blank, as he just stared at Barry, right through him.

Barry released his grip on the man's shoulder and moved back, still staring in silent shock. The man continued to stare at him, his mouth slightly open. It looked as though he was barely there in this world.

Then in an instant, he reacted. His hands shot out and grabbed onto Barry's shoulders, and then he lunged his head forward, his mouth wide open to reveal his yellowed teeth, sinking them into the spot between Barry's left shoulder and his neck.

The security guard screamed out in pain.

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Jeff and Lenny were about half-way down the corridor when they and a few other stadium security guards heard the scream of agony from somewhere nearby.

"Oh god, now what?!" asked Jeff as a pair of security guards sprinted past them and turned down the corridor into the loading bay. It didn't take long before more panicked shouting was heard.

"Oh Jesus Christ, what the hell is he doing?!" yelled one guard.

"Screw that, get him off him!" yelled the other.

"Get the hell off him!"

Lenny and Jeff didn't even need to say anything, as both of them immediately broke into a sprint, clearing the corridor space within a few seconds and entering through the doorway into the spacious loading bay.

"Oh God!"

They both skidded to a halt when they saw the scene before them. Two security guards were holding a young man to the ground, one of them holding the man's arms behind his back, and the other with his knees braced across the man's legs, holding him down even further. It seemed a bit excessive, but the man was growling and thrashing about wildly, almost throwing the two guards off of him despite his somewhat slight frame.

"What the hell?" asked Jeff, as Lenny turned his head to the side and saw something else.

"Holy shit…"

A third guard lay on his back a short distance away, blood pouring from a ghastly wound in his neck region. He wasn't moving. The pool that was forming around his body was already a few feet wide.

"Oh Jesus Christ!" cried Jeff, sounding shaken. He quickly reached for a fresh tooth pick to clench between his teeth, his hands shaking.

"His teeth were in Barry's neck!" cried one of the guards, tears in his eyes and his voice strained. "He was tearing his fucking neck open!"

"Oh great, as if things couldn't get worse!" said Jeff, as he quickly crossed to check the fallen security guard. He put a hand to the man's neck, and then to his wrists, checking for a pulse. He didn't find one, and he just glanced up at Lenny, shaking his head sadly.

"Oh Jesus…" muttered Lenny.

"What the hell do we do with this fucker?!" yelled one of the other security guards, even as a small crowd of staff started to gather in the entrance of the loading bay. The guilty party continued to growl and thrash under the weight of the two men holding him down.

"Get him in the other van, now," ordered Lenny, walking up to help them out. The guards had already handcuffed the man, and were pulling him to his feet just as Lenny approached and grabbed a hold of the man's shoulder to help him up.

The man, growling rabidly, suddenly swung around with unusual speed, his teeth bared, and tried to chomp down on the officer's nose. Lenny managed to draw back in time, barely dodging the crazed man's attack, the foetid breath washing over his face.

As he drew back, he caught sight of the man's pale skin and his cold white eyes, a sight that sent shivers down his spine. And then that disturbing sight was gone again, as one of the guards slammed a knee into the man's back, forcing him to his knees, before pulling him away from Lenny, as he continued to growl and thrash about, spittle dripping from his lips.

"Feisty one, aren't you?!" asked one of the guards, as his colleague opened the back doors of another van, throwing the insane man inside and quickly slamming the doors shut. The man was at the small window set in the door almost immediately afterwards, his mouth opening and closing in wide, yawning motions as he moaned in a haunting manner.

"Oh Jesus Christ!" exclaimed the other guard. "What the fuck was that about?!"

"Dispatch, this is officer Danson," said Jeff, pulling out his radio. "We need an extra unit down here: we've just apprehended some crazed guy who tore one of the guard's throats out…we think it could be one of those cannibal killers."

There was a pause from the other side, as Lenny gave his friend a grave look.

"Roger that, help's on the way," replied dispatch after a pause, and Jeff clipped his radio back onto his belt. He looked at Lenny again, breathing slowly.

"Looks like we managed to catch one of the bastards then," he said finally, looking towards the closed riot door vans, which shook as the crazed man trapped inside threw himself against the closed doors, despite the fact his hands were cuffed behind his back. The two wary guards stood by, looking fearfully at one another; even as a third one appeared and draped a sheet over the fallen body of Barry Hyde.

"That man…" whispered Lenny, shaking his head.

"What about him?" asked Jeff, standing next to him.

"Did you see his face?" asked Lenny, turning to face his partner. "It was…it was like he was already dead."

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Out on the pitch, the home crowd howled in approval as Hugo Chaser scored yet another touchdown for his team. The Sharks were doing their usual tactic of blitzing the other side for the first half of the game, but the Thunders were proving themselves the worthy opponents, and they were only about 5 points behind the Sharks.

Up in the stands, hundreds of bodies moved and swayed in unison, chanting the names of the players they loved and worshipped like heroes, dressed in blue and white or red and black, divided from one half of the stadium to the other, but there were some cases were a lone square of supporters found themselves surrounded by the opposing team supporters. Some of the more obsessive fans were bare-chested, their faces and torsos daubed in the paint matching their team's hue, reading out the numbers of the different team's star players, both old and new. A group of ten Sharks, in the near front row, all bare-chested, spelt out Hugo Chaser's name from left to right, in huge blue and white letters daubed on their bare torsos.

In the aisles between the stands, refreshment staff moved back and forth, doling out packets of peanuts and cups of beer in rapid sequence. Elsewhere, drunken fans broke out into frenzied brawls with one another, fists flying this way and that as blood was spilt, security guards and R.P.D officers moving in to break up the fights and pull away the offending fans. But it was as all a minor feature against the backdrop of the main event.

Down in the shadows of one of the entrance tunnels onto the main pitch, a shadowy figure watched and waited, breathing slowly to himself, disguised from public view. It was good that he was, as his deformed face and white eyes would disturb even the most hardened person. The man moaned in pain, a sound that was drawn out for several long seconds.

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Within 20 minutes, back-up had arrived, and the insane man was manhandled by at least 3 R.P.D officers into the back of a heavily-barred van. He was still snarling and growling like a wild animal, even as heavy blows with nightsticks were slammed into his knees and his back. It was as if he felt no pain at all. Eventually, Lenny and Jeff watched as the van roared out of the loading bay.

"Jesus," muttered Jeff. "How fucked up."

"You could say that," replied Lenny, deadpan. "The public doesn't need to know about this…we don't want to start a panic."

"Fair enough," nodded Jeff. "Far as I know, no-one's managed to get down here, so we're fine for now."

"Good," replied Lenny, turning and walking back towards the loading bay entrance, Jeff following behind him.

That image of the man's face…he still couldn't get it out of his head. The pale skin, the pure white eyes, the teeth gleaming with some kind of insane madness as he tried to take a chunk out of Lenny's face. It was unnerving, to say the least.

_Was he on some kind of drug? He barely rea__cted when the others struck him with the nightsticks…_

"So we got one of the cannibal murders then?" added Jeff suddenly, sounding a bit pleased with himself. "Won't be long till we have the rest of them, eh?"

"If that guy says anything," muttered Lenny in response. "He didn't seem too responsive just now."

"A night in the cells and he'll loosen up, trust me," said Jeff, confidently.

They'd barely managed to reach the open doors, when a trio of security guards ran past, barking into their radios, followed by a lone R.P.D officer who they recognised as Dave Kowalski.

"Now what?" asked Lenny with a sigh.

"Fan brawl!" yelled Dave loudly as he moved by. "Those guys are really lumping it to one another!" Jeff just rolled his eyes.

"You can't leave those guys alone for a second…"

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Up on the pitch, the half time intermission had just started, and the exhausted players returned to their benches, dragging their helmets off and spitting out their gum shields, to take a deep drink of the chilled bottled water they had been supplied with beforehand. Hugo Chaser grinned wide as he downed most of his own bottle down in a single gulp, as the hordes of fans behind him cheered his name. He turned to face them, smiling even wider and bowing to them. The cheers grew even louder.

In the front row of the stands, no-one took any notice of the man sat on the far end, leaning over heavily, his Sharks jersey wrapped tightly around him. He moaned and pulled down the sleeve of his jersey, staring intently at the patch of grey flesh on his arm, the patch that looked as though it were dead. He continued to stare at the spot for several seconds, before he suddenly felt very feint, falling sideways off of his seat and lying still on the ground in the foetal position, as the crowd continued to roar in adulation, ignoring him completely.

Further up one of the flights of stairs, one of the refreshment vendors stood in place, rubbing his brow with a handkerchief. It wasn't even that hot today, but yet he still felt as though he were about to pass out. Having a quick thought, he quickly rolled his sleeve and stared at a spot on his arm, several inches down his arm from his shoulder. It was grey and scabby, almost as though it were dead. He stared in silent horror, even as the crowd's voices rose up again.

Elsewhere on the opposite side of the stands, a brawl had broken out between several inebriated Shark and Thunders fans, a fight that threatened to spill out onto the field itself, mere feet away from where the substitutes for the Thunders were sat, ignoring the whole incident. As security and a couple of R.P.D officers rushed to try and stop things getting even uglier, they failed to notice one of the fans lying sprawled on the ground, twitching and holding one of his hands to his neck, as blood poured from a savage bite wound he had just received.

Down on the field, Hugo Chaser sat himself down on one of the benches, stretching his arms above him, not noticing the hagged man with the beard and wearing a black plaid shirt coming up behind him ever so slowly. No-one else saw him either, even as the star player stood back up, putting his gum shield back in and wrapping the bandages around his hands and forearms, preparing for the second half.

He finished his preparations and raised his hands above him, and the crowd cheered at him again. It was only then that he looked up at the massive video screen showing the image of himself raising his arms, and saw the image of someone coming up behind him, barely a couple of feet away now. Staring up, frozen in surprise, he quickly turned to face the strange man.

The pitch invader was right in his face now, his ragged red beard and pale skin giving him a very ungroomed appearance, but it was his eyes, pale white globes set into his skull, that gave Hugo the chills the worst. In an instant, the man was growling like some kind of wild animal, before he lunged forward with his teeth bared, sinking them into the neck area of the star football player.

The cheering of the people in the front row suddenly gave way to horrified screaming as they saw what was happening to their hero. The football player cried out as a cloud of red liquid gushed from where the maniac's teeth had torn right through his shirt and into his skin. Hugo cried out and tried to shove the man off of him, but despite being nearly twice his size, he could barely manage doing so. A pair of security guards came sprinting up as the crazed man went for another bite, before he was grabbed roughly by the arms and ripped off of the Sharks player. As all three of them went backwards, the crazed man suddenly turning on the guards and sinking his teeth into the cheek of one of them. The maniac hungrily tore a huge chunk of flesh away from the man's face.

The screams intensified, and then suddenly the scene was being played on the massive video screens of the stadium, as the insane man let go of the first guard and turned on the second. A burst of mace spray directly into the eyes didn't stop the man as he tackled the second guard to the ground and sank his teeth into the man's throat, tearing it out in one swift motion, as the first guard writhed about on the ground in agony, blood pouring from his face.

The rest of the crowd saw the projected screen, and that was it. The whole crowd burst into a chorus of panicked screams, rising up from their seats in terror. A good number of them started to make for the nearest exit, before the whole crowd took the same action, and then there were great surges of people, heading for safety.

Over on the west stands, a young man was making his way towards the exit ramp when he caught his foot on something and fell onto his face, smashing his nose. His cry of pain was swallowed by the screaming and hysterics of the rest of the crowd, who passed by him unheeding. He clutched a hand to his bloodied face and tried to get to his feet, just as something grabbed onto his foot. He glanced behind quickly.

There was another man lying on the ground, looking as though he were trying to rise to his feet, but when he looked closer he suddenly realised something. The man's face and arms were deathly pale, his hair a matted, greasy mess. The man opened his mouth and a disturbing moan came out, one that would be enough to chill the spine of even the most hardened person.

Then a large bulky man suddenly stepped on the back of the crazy-looking man, who relinquished his grip. Taking his chance, the other man stumbled to his feet and fled as fast as he could in the direction of the exit ramp, leaving the strange man behind, continuing to be trampled upon by fleeing fans, unable to rise.

Down on the playing field, Hugo Chaser's vision came in and out of focus as blood continued to pour from the horrific wound in his neck. The other members of his team had gotten involved now, two of them holding him up, while the others fought to restrain the lunatic that had attacked him in the first place. It was taking at least 4 of the Sharks to hold the guy down, as he growled and thrashed against them. Several feet away, the bodies of the two security guards that had previously tried to help him lay unmoving.

"Hugo! Stay with me, man!" yelled one of the players holding onto him, but he couldn't place who it was exactly.

"C-can't…feel my legs…" slurred Hugo, drifting in and out of consciousness.

"Hold on man!" yelled the unknown voice again, but sounding very distant now.

Hugo's head tilted to the side, and he saw the entrance to the team's part of the stadium, and the trio of shadowy figures that were staggering out into the light, all of them covered in a fair amount of blood and other vital fluids. He tried to open his mouth, to say something, but he was too weak to do so. Instead, his head tilted to the side again, giving him a slanted view of his fellow players holding his attacker down, and of the bodies of the security guards. One of them was facing towards him, his eyes closed.

Hugo Chaser blacked out just as the dead man's eyes snapped open, revealing nothing but pure white.

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Lenny and Jeff had just stepped into one of the main corridors that lead up to the eastern stands when they heard the cacophony of screams from above. The two officers stopped in their tracks and looked up toward the ceiling.

"What the hell?" asked Jeff, just as their radios burst into life.

"Is anyone there? Holy shit, it's a goddamn riot down here!" yelled the panicked voice of Dave Kowalski.

"Dave! What's going on?!" asked Lenny, grabbing for his own radio and lifting it to his face.

"Someone…some guy just attacked Hugo Chaser on the field!" replied Dave, his voice strained. Jeff and Lenny shared a concerned look with one another. "There's some crazy people in the crowd as well! They're killing each other for Christ's sake!" In the background, frenzied screaming could be heard.

"Damn it!" cursed Lenny. "Dave! Can you get things under control?"

There was loud laughter from the other end of the line. "You're joking, right? I'm the only one here! God knows where Danny and Luke got to; they were swept away in the scrum! It's just me trying to herd at least 3 hundred people!"

"Jesus, what the hell happened?!" asked Jeff in disbelief, though he didn't get an answer. No-one would get an answer for the time being. Lenny just rubbed his forehead, trying to keep his cool despite the situation they were in.

"Dave, where are you right now?"

"In the eastern stands!" yelled Dave back over a load of strangled cries. "Some of the people really have lost it, they're eating each other!"

Lenny felt his heart turn to ice at that last part of the transmission. People eating one another…had the cannibal gang come here, of all places? It seemed like madness, attacking a huge crowd rather than going after lone families in their own homes.

"Look, we're on our way up now," explained Lenny. "Try and hold the fort until we get there, then we'll think of something else."

Dave scoffed. "I'll give it a try, but it ain't no picnic up here. Hurry up guys!" And then the line cut off.

"What was that about them eating each other?" asked Jeff as the two officers put their radios away. "What the hell have these damned kids been smoking now?!"

"Somehow I don't think they've been smoking anything," said Lenny. "I think those damned cannibal freaks have turned up."

"What?! Here?" asked Jeff in disbelief. "This doesn't make any damned sense though…it's broad daylight!"

"Well either way we've got at least a thousand people to try and help," reasoned Lenny, un-holstering his weapon. "Come on, we need to get going now."

The two of them had barely started to walk towards the main doors leading up to the stands when they suddenly burst open, letting in a wave of human bodies, and a chorus of terrified screaming hit them in the face. They recoiled in shock as at least two hundred people piled out, spilling in all directions. It was almost as though someone had opened the floodgates on a river made entirely of human bodies. They were fleeing in pure terror: ignoring those around them, they clawed and scrambled over one another, sometimes even dragging one another to the ground in an effort to escape whatever it was after them. Lenny saw several people knocked to the ground and trampled in an instant, not even having the chance to cry out in pain or surprise.

"Holy shit!" cried Jeff, backing away in surprise, but Lenny stood his ground.

"R.P.D!" he yelled in his most commanding voice. "Just settle down and we can get you all-"

The crowd paid no attention as they slammed into the two officers full force, carrying them away in a tidal wave of bodies. Lenny's cell phone tumbled from his pocket and smacked off of the cold concrete ground, before many descending feet crushed it into countless pieces.

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The crowd didn't notice the moment when Hugo Chaser was attacked at first, but when the scene of the two security guards trying to save the star player being savaged was projected onto the big screen, the crowd went hysterical. As one, they rose from their seats screaming, and surged as fast as they could towards the nearest exit ramps. The sight was akin to the waking and waning of the tide, as hundreds of bodies fought to be the first to get out of the stadium, away from the madness engulfing the game, to the safety of their homes.

At the western stands, at least 200 people escaped by moving forwards, vaulting the barriers and onto the playing field itself, before breaking off and fleeing down the passages into the player's dressing rooms that would eventually lead out into the rear loading bay. At least two dozen people were too slow in getting out of the way of their fellow fans, and they crushed to death from the sheer weight of bodies behind them pushing them up against the barrier. Another dozen were dragged down and killed by the pale-looking lunatics that seemed to have crawled out of the woodwork at that moment.

Similar to the man that had attacked Hugo Chaser, all of them were hagged-looking and wore ragged clothes. The majority of them were covered in dried or fresh blood as well. Several of them seemed to have made their way into the stadium throughout the first half of the game, only revealing themselves just before the second half. Whatever was wrong with them, it was enough to drive them to attack anyone in reach, tearing at them with their bare teeth, seemingly trying to eat them alive. In the corridors in the western part of the stadium, one young man suddenly faltered and fell while fleeing the place with his girlfriend. When she turned back to help him, he suddenly grabbed onto her and tore her throat out with his teeth.

Elsewhere, one of the stadium's food vendors went into a frenzy, killing at least two of his colleagues and then feasting on the remains of one of them, blood soaking through his entire uniform, a grisly sight indeed. The stadium's security weren't much of a deterrent for these maniacs either, refusing to stand down even when guns were pointed at them. And when the guards were reduced to opening fire, things only got worse. It was as if these people felt no pain: each of them took at least 8 shots to the torso to put down, not even registering the hits as they continued to advance in that implacable manner of theirs. Down at the loading bay, one of the guards had his neck torn open by a maniac and died on the spot, but about two minutes later, he suddenly rose up unexplained and proceeded to savage one of his colleagues to death.

It was sheer madness, and not even the presence of a few officers of the R.P.D were able to quell the disorder either: the seething crowds of terrified football fans simply just swept them out of the way in their terror to flee: at least 4 officers were trampled to death under the feet of the people they were supposed to be helping. Others fared somewhat better, helping to direct groups of terrified citizens out of the stadium and to the relative safety of their cars or onto the streets, before calling for backup: a cruiser filled with a quartet of armed officers, and a pair of ambulances arrived, ready to extract the hurt. At least a dozen people were rushed off to Raccoon General, suffering from serious cases of bruising and internal damage, and a few more suffering from what seemed to be grisly bite wounds.

Unfortunately, the trouble at the Warren Stadium would only be a brief taste of what was to come for Raccoon City in the very near future.

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Back at the Bristol household, Anna Bristol stood in her front lounge, trying to call her husband. She was having no luck though, since the call never went through: all she got was a beeping sound that showed that his phone was likely switched off, and she'd tried at least 3 times now. He pretty much always answered on the first attempt, so now she wondered if something was terribly wrong. But it was only a football game he was helping out at, nothing bad should have been happening…should it?

"Come on Lenny, what's wrong?" she asked herself.

She had been home about an hour or so now, after picking Lewis up from his school. The boy had been fine, luckily: it was just a bad case of cold he had come down with, not the mystery illness which had been plaguing the hospital. And so she was trying to uphold her promise to Lenny, to let him know that his son was safe and well. He always worried a lot about his son, but that was a father's job, to worry.

She looked out the window, and noticed that the street outside seemed so quiet. Normally she could see her neighbours going about their business, but right now there was no-one outside, the cars still parked outside, the curtains drawn shut, almost as though they wanted to remain out of sight. The only sign of life she could see though was Mr Forster though, tending to his beloved garden, as he did every day. It would have been more unsettling if the kind old man _wasn't_ out at his garden.

Across the road, where the Hatcher family lived, Eric Hatcher sat in his chair in the front room, breathing heavily to himself. He was sweating as well, probably due to this unknown affliction he'd been hit with. His doctor didn't have a definite answer for what he had, instead prescribing him a course on antibiotics, which hadn't helped very much at all. The symptoms- nausea, itchy skin, high fevers and a constant hunger- persisted, and they had reached their peak just an hour previously. Rolling down his sleeves, Eric was horrified to see that large parts of the flesh on his arms had turned a ghastly shade of grey.

He prodded at a part of his arm, and was even more horrified when a part of it suddenly broke away and dropped to the carpet with a soft smack of wet meat hitting a solid object.

_What the hell is happening to me?!_

Strangely, he felt no pain, despite the fact a part of his body had just sloughed off from the bone at a slight touch. He tried to stand up, to call out for his wife Jessie, but he couldn't: he was rooted to the spot, as something ravaged his body. He could feel it coursing through his veins, eating him apart from the inside, and he was powerless to resist. His immune system had held it off for the last few days, but now it had fallen, and he was doomed.

He leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling, as his vision became clouded, and a haunting moan emanated from the back of his throat, reverberating through the entire household. It was a sound echoed by his wife, Jessie, who had been bed-ridden for the last couple of days with a similar condition. Now she had risen up once more, but in a second, more horrific existence.

**A/N: And so Raccoon City starts going to hell….of course the riot at the football game is an event mentioned in the intro for scenario 1 of Resi Evil Outbreak, so I thought it would be nice to further expand upon that event. As you can imagine, huge crowds of people plus zombie attack….equals utter pandemonium. Not even the Raccoon Sharks' star player is safe. **

**But anyway, the next chapter will introduce a few more characters into the madness of Raccoon. Who will live and who will die? Come back for the next update to find out!**


	3. Out the Woodwork

Chapter 3: Out the Woodwork

**September 26****th**** 1231 hours**

Raccoon City University was one of the city's oldest buildings, originally constructed during the time of the city's original founding some 30 years ago. The actual university building itself and its associated campus grounds covered several city blocks on the eastern side of the city, backing out onto a view of the Marble River, one of the two prominent rivers that ran through the heart of the city. Although the university provided for students of history, literature, and social-based programmes, it mainly catered for various scientific and medical-based degrees, due to the city's close relationship with Umbrella Incorporated.

Today, the green patch of land that served as a hub for most of the social events at the university was teeming with students, even though more should have been there. It was a well-known fact that a few dozen of them had taken a sick day off just to go see the football game between the Raccoon Sharks and the Old Court Thunders that had just recently started, a match that was promised to be a pivotal turning point in local sports history. Though those students more interested in passing their finals, or those disinterested in sport, had stayed behind to attend their lectures. Groups of them had gathered on the green now, sitting on the benches or on the grass itself, chatting among one another, reading through their textbooks or working on their personal computers.

The double doors leading into the west dorms opened and a pair of male students came out, talking among one another. One of them wore black jeans and sneakers, along with a plain white shirt, and had blonde hair with dark green eyes, while the other one had mid-length black hair and brown eyes, and was also wearing a long-sleeved green shirt along with grey-coloured pants and dark sneakers. Both of them had backpacks slung over their shoulders.

"Dude, all I'm saying is you gotta be more careful now!" said the dark-haired one with a laugh.

"Why, cause it's our last year?" said the blonde with a sarcastic laugh.

"Well considering Dr. Barnes has been noting every time you don't attend class to the Dean, I'd say you're walking on thin ice!" retorted the other one. "At this rate you're gonna bomb out before the first semester is out. And that'd be impressive, even by your golden standards!"

"Fine, if you insist I'll step things up," sighed the blonde one.

Ryan Jenson wasn't born and raised in Raccoon: he originally lived in Chicago, moving to Raccoon a few years beforehand to start a new life away from home, and besides the university featured the courses he was interested in doing: history and biological science. Though if he knew how hard the second course was going to be, he wouldn't have bothered applying for it: the rate he was going, he was going to flunk out of that course. He was more of a history person anyways, despite the fact he looked more of a stereotypical jock character: he loved most sports, including football and baseball, and was easily the best athlete on campus. His strong, athletic figure showed this well, as was the fact he spent practically all of his spare time down at the local gym, or at the ballpark with some other local students. But despite the fact that he had a friendly, approachable personality, he kept to himself most of the time, away from the other main cliques on campus.

The other student there with him was Grant Hetfield, his roommate and friend since he had first come to Raccoon University. Unlike Ryan, he was more of a laid-back person, who often preferred to pass his time by playing his guitar and writing music: he often claimed that he would be the world's greatest songwriter someday, and based on his performances at countless open mic nights at the university bar, a lot of people would agree on that. But like Ryan, he preferred to stay separate from the other groups on campus: and the two of them had become inseparable as a result.

"So what's on the agenda today then?" asked Grant, as the pair of them sidestepped around a group of other students coming the opposite way.

"Well first off there's yet another thrilling science class," explained Ryan with a roll of his eyes, "and then later on I've got some time off, so me, Zac and some others were going to the movies…to see that new Biohazard 4 movie that's just come out."

"Dude, that sounds awesome," said Grant with a smile.

"You should come along, you haven't been out in ages!" replied Ryan, getting a little excited.

"I can't, we got another open mic night tonight," Grant replied with a sigh. "Maybe some other time?"

"Oh dude you're such a let-down," said Ryan with a shake of his head.

"I can't let down my fans!" replied Grant.

"But what about your friends?" retorted Ryan with a laugh. "Screw your fans, we're more important!"

"I'll pretend you never said that, Jenson," muttered Grant disapprovingly. And then, perking up, he asked "So you heard from Zac yet today?"

"Nah," said Ryan, shaking his head. "He's due to start later today though, so I was just going to see him after class."

"Well he'd better hurry up, he's only got 5 minutes before class starts," noted Grant.

"Since when has Zac ever been on time for his classes?" laughed Ryan. "Seriously dude."

"Point," laughed Grant in reply.

The two of them cut across the grass, towards the doors into the science block, passing by a pair of female students who were sat upon one of the benches, talking among one another. One of them was a redhead wearing a red shirt and blue jeans, while the other one had shoulder-length blonde hair and was wearing a dark jacket over a blue vest top. When Ryan and Grant passed by, the red-head seemed to sense their coming and glanced up, regarding them both with her shining blue eyes.

"Hey Ryan," she said with a sweet smile.

"Hey Amy," he replied with an awkward smile back as they moved on.

Unlke Ryan, Amy Jefferson was a local girl, born and raised in Raccoon City, friendly and accommodating towards all. She was fairly popular with most of the other students at the campus, yet she always found time to talk with and even hang out with the relatively new people. It was hard for anyone to hate her as well: always cheerful and willing to listen, if anyone didn't like her then it was likely a problem with them and not the other way around. The other girl with her was Michelle, one of Amy's main friends for the last few years, even before they both started at the university. It was like the two of them were joined at the hip, everywhere they went.

"Hey Ryan, you up to anything tonight?" Amy suddenly asked, and the two passing students quickly stopped and doubled-back.

"Uh…well," said Ryan, stumbling over his words as he looked at the redhead, "me and Zac were planning on going to see Biohazard 4 tonight…the late night showing."

"Seriously?" asked Michelle with a light laugh. "Oh you boys and your monster movies-"

"Sounds fun," said Amy suddenly, interrupting her friend's sarcastic comment.

"Yeah, it's fun," added Grant. "If you're into zombies getting their heads blown off-" He was silenced when Ryan nudged an elbow into his ribs.

"Anyway, I never took you as a Biohazard fan," Ryan then added.

"There's a lot of things you don't know about me," replied Amy with a cheeky smile. Ryan himself started to smirk a little at that remark, before Grant took a hold of his arm and pulled him away a short distance.

"Um, we've got somewhere to be, remember?" he said, glancing at the two girls for a quick second. "Unless you fancy being forced to resit the year again?"

"Yes mom," said Ryan with a sarcastic tone and smiling slightly, before he turned back towards the two females. "Well, duty calls ladies. See you later?"

"Hope so," smiled Amy, causing Ryan to grin back in response. Then he and Grant were walking away briskly, as the two females looked at one another and then started giggling amongst themselves.

"Oh geez Ryan, you're meant to be a macho sports star," muttered Grant as the two friends walked on, "you're not meant to be tripping over your words when talking to a girl. A girl, of all things!"

"I take it you're not a big fan of the opposite sex, then," asked Ryan with a raised eyebrow.

"Considering the last time I went out with a girl she nearly got me killed, I'd say that was a fair assumption," muttered Grant in reply. Ryan couldn't help but laugh out loud at the mention of that rather embarrassing part of his friend's experience with Layla Dean, one of the local 'bad girls'. The two of them had actually started a relationship, much to the surprise of everyone else who knew them, but it was destined to be short-lived. When Grant went missing after their first date, no-one saw him until the morning after: when he was in a police car being driven off to the police station. No-one knew exactly what had happened that night, but a lot of rumours were doing the rounds.

"So when will you tell us what happened between you and the lovely Layla, then?" asked Ryan jokingly.

"When hell freezes over," snapped Grant in reply, causing his friend to laugh at him a bit more. "But anyway, maybe I should have some fun at your expense."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" asked Ryan, as Grant suddenly adopted a mocking tone, grinning as well.

"Ryan and Amy, sitting in a tree, doing what they shouldn't be!"

"Shut up!" retorted Ryan, punching his friend in the shoulder, shutting him up, just as the bell started to ring from somewhere nearby, indicating that the lectures for the afternoon were about to start. "Oh damn, we'll have to finish this later."

"If you say so," taunted Grant, as the two students went their own separate ways, Grant heading off along the path towards the literature class, while Ryan pushed through the double doors, heading off towards the science labs, for yet another thrilling lesion in biological sciences…he swore those lessons would do him in one of these days.

Though chances were something more sinister would do him in before the end of the day.

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Several city blocks away, Zac Briars walked briskly along the sidewalk, a backpack slung over one of his shoulders and dodging around other civilians walking the opposite way. He was young, about 20 years old, a student at the local university…and he was likely going to be late yet again, due to his not being able to get a decent night's sleep last night. He had brown hair and a fresh face, currently wearing a white flannel shirt and faded denim jeans, along with his plain white sneakers.

Like a majority of the students, he actually came from out of town: he was born and raised in Kansas, coming to Raccoon a few years ago to undertake a degree in history, and in that time he had come to make friends with a fair few of the students. In particular, he was closest to Ryan Jenson and Amy Jefferson, and both of them had been there for him through the tough times, and he had been there for them as well. Despite the fact he was more studious than the others, he still knew how to have a good time: in fact he and a few of the others were due to go to the midnight viewing of Biohazard 4, the latest offering in that eponymous horror movie series that he had become a little too obsessed with. He could recite the scripts of the first three films word for word, practically.

He took out his cell phone and looked at the display. There was still no reply from any of his friends who were at the football game that was going on right now: they must have been having too good a time to reply to his calls, clearly. Keying in a number, it went straight to Billy's answer phone. He sighed to himself as the answer message played and the beep was heard.

"Billy, it's Zac," he said as he slowed down and stood still. "Look, I know you're too busy having such a good time with the game, but when you get the chance, let me know if you're still on for going to see the movie with the rest of us tonight, allright? OK then, take it easy now, you hear?" And with that, he ended the call and dropped the cell phone back into his pocket. Looking around, he saw Rene's Café across the street and smiled to himself, quickly crossing the street and approaching the main double doors.

He pushed through and saw that the tiny, cosy café was practically empty, as expected: only a few regulars were inside, sat at their usual table or at their usual spot at the front counter, taking little notice in anyone else there. Behind the counter, a pretty brunette girl with deep brown eyes and wearing a white shirt, her hair tied back in a ponytail, was tending to the staff. When she glanced up and saw Zac standing there, she smiled.

"Hey Zaccy!" she said, as he walked up to the counter and dropped his backpack onto the ground next to him. "Same as usual?"

"That would be nice," he smiled, as she already started to prepare his usual drinking chocolate with the extra chocolate sprinkles, the same drink he had every single time he came in here, without fail. "How's things Emma?"

Emma Wyatt and her father Thomas owned the café, after they had bought it off of the previous owner, Rene, who had then gone back to his native France. Zac had first met her during his very first day at university, and since then the two of them had become good friends, and Zac's stops at the café had become a regularity, even on the odd weekend. He really loved the drinking chocolate this place made, and the chocolate sprinkles they used.

"Oh its great," smiled the brunette back as she poured out his drink in a tall mug. "Dad still hasn't been feeling 100% though, no matter how much rest he has or many pills he takes. I swear he'll overdose on those one of these days…"

"Hey, he'll be fine," replied Zac, "he bounced back from that broken leg, didn't he?" He then added. "He's a tough old boot, he'll get over it."

"Maybe so, but this seems worse than a normal cold," said Emma, as she put his drink on the counter in front of him, sighing as she did so. "He hasn't improved at all, and it's been almost a week now. I know he isn't exactly a spring chicken anymore, but still…"

Zac was inclined to agree with her in that regard. He'd known at least a handful of people who'd been laid up in bed for several days with some kind of mystery illness, that wracked them with bouts of hacking coughs, feelings of nausea, and peculiarly, extreme hunger. He knew of at least one person who had become ravenously hungry during his illness, despite the doctor's recommendation to avoid eating too much. Maybe Emma's father was feeling the same way? But whatever, he didn't know her father that well and didn't jump to any conclusions.

"I know it seems somewhat hopeless, but he'll be fine, trust me," he finally said, smiling at her. She returned the gesture with her own perfect smile, that one that made him believe that everything would be allright in the end.

"You sure know how to make a girl feel better, don't you?" she laughed, before taking a more serious tone. "But anyway, what have you got planned for tonight?"

"Oh me and the other guys are going to the midnight viewing of Biohazard 4," he replied, taking a sip of his piping hot drink.

"Oh you boys and your zombie movies," laughed Emma.

"What?" asked Zac incredulously, putting his mug down. "You not a fan of zombies then?" he asked, before raising his arms before him and twisting his face into a contorted expression. He let out a long, dry moaning sound, replicating the same ubiquitous creatures that featured in the Biohazard movie series.

"Brains…" he then said, drawing the word out for several seconds, still holding his zombie pose.

"Stop it!" she laughed, hitting him on the forearm, and he drew back, holding his hands up in defence.

Unknown to them, another scene was taking place. Across the road from the café, a middle-aged man wearing a tattered coat stepped out from an alleyway into the light. His torso and upper arms seemed to be coated in something coloured dark red, and he made one last effort to keep his footing, before he suddenly fell forward onto the sidewalk, propping himself up with his hands. Steadying himself, he retched a few times, and vomited a stream of green liquid from his mouth onto the pavement. There was a light hissing sound as the liquid made contact, steam rising into the air. From nearby, a good Samaritan came running up to check on the crouching man.

"Hey dude, you allright?" asked a teenager with shoulder-length hair, putting a hand on the man's shoulder and helping him to his feet.

The man turned to look up at the one helping him, his skin deathly pale and his eyes empty of any human emotion.

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Located in the heart of downtown Raccoon City, the Apple Inn was known as one of the city's most prominent hotels: though not as expensive or glitzy as some of the other hotels in the city, it was cosy enough, and affordable enough, and as such it was the most popular place to stay in the city, recommended to all tourists who came to visit. Though the building itself was old and starting to crumble, it remained a popular rest for tourists and those passing through the city. And once again, the Apple Inn was at full capacity.

Down in the spacious restaurant, several guests had gathered, either to socialise with one another, or to take their lunch or attend to other business. Sat over at one of the window tables was a middle-aged man with dark hair and eyes, wearing a fine blue suit, over a white shirt and a dark blue neck tie as well, his chin marked with a neatly trimmed beard. A stack of official paper documents, along with a hi-tech personal computer, were laid out before him, and he typed furiously away at the keyboard, glancing at the documents next to him every now and then as well.

His name was Steven Dreyfus, a resident of the United Kingdom, here on a business trip for his employer, Umbrella Inc. He was a member of the corporation's finance department, had been for the last 15 years of his life: as his friends always told him, a job with Umbrella was a job for life. And it had proved to be a very lucrative place in the long run: back home he had a fine house for his loving family, security for the future: everything a man could ever want in life. Recently though, he had found himself working abroad, and overtime as well, away from his family.

Since July, the company's expenditure had practically doubled within a two week period, around the end of July and the start of August, and then since then there had been a steady increase in the company's expenditure in its US branch. But strangely enough, the profits hadn't increased at a similar rate, remaining steady. He knew this because he was looking at the charts for the last few months, and also the projected figures for the rest of the year. And at the current rate, it looked as though the company would run itself into the ground by this time next year. There seemed no logical reason for why the expenditure had increased suddenly, and it was a point to bring up during his near-future meeting with the Board of Directors.

Or rather, he hoped so. He hadn't been able to get a hold of anyone at the Raccoon HQ for the last few days, to double check if the scheduled meeting was due to go ahead. He wondered if they were all busy, but he quickly dismissed that idea out of hand: every time he had put a phone call through to an Umbrella owned building, someone _always _answered the phone for him. He nearly always had access to the priority line as well, due to his high position within the corporation. He wondered if it were just a technical hitch, but something in his gut told him otherwise.

"What can I get you sir?" asked one of the bar staff suddenly, appearing at his shoulder. He was a young man wearing the standard red waistcoat of Apple Inn staff, his hands held before him.

"Just a diet cola, please," Steven replied, sounding disinterested.

"Of course sir," nodded the staff member, turning and walking away towards the bar. Steven still didn't take any notice of the man's actions, too focused was he on his work before him. After a few seconds, he paused and took out a bronze-plated pocket watch in one of his jacket pockets, flicking it open. Inside was a small picture of him with the rest of his family: his loving wife Margaret, and his two beautiful daughters, Samantha and Lara, both of them in their teens. The picture had been taken in their back garden the year beforehand, a snapshot of their happy existence. But he hadn't spent much time with them recently, and that hurt him quite a lot. If he'd had a bad day at work, going back to his family would make it all seem better. But right now, he didn't have that luxery, and he wouldn't for at least another week or so.

He sighed heavily and closed the pocket watch again. He stared at it for a few seconds, before putting it back into his pocket and going back to his work.

He and the other diners didn't even notice the young woman outside, slowly walking up to the window just next to him, in a very slow, almost lethargic manner. Her head was lowered and her filthy blonde hair seemed to obscure most of her facial features. Then when she was within a few inches, she raised her hands and lunged at the glass.

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Back at Raccoon University, Professor Langdon's sociology class was about to begin, and his students started to take their usual seats.

"Good morning class, I trust you all slept well last night," announced Professor Langdon, a middle-aged, balding man who wore thin-rimmed spectacles and tended to act in a very old-fashioned manner. "Because after all, a good night's sleep is a good start to any day."

"If you say so," muttered Trent Wilde under his breath, causing a few others to stifle a low snigger.

"…and of course, I don't have to remind you how important this year is for all of you, do I?" added Langdon, leaning forward on his desk. "It'd be worth it if you all tightened yourselves up and flew higher."

Then the professor stopped and his eyes scanned over towards the far end of the room, where Brandon Shaw, his class' resident slacker, usually sat. And it was empty: yet again.

"Would someone mind telling me where Brandon is?" he then asked, to no-one in particular.

"I don't know sir," said Amy Jefferson, speaking up at the back of the room. "But you know he hasn't been feeling well lately-"

"Typical," said Langdon, shaking his head, before someone else piped up.

"Sir, there he is now!" said one of the male students, pointing out the window. A few people, including Langdon, craned their heads to look. Sure enough, a lone figure was crossing the green, making their way towards the door that lead into the building. He was wearing the same dark blue jacket that Brandon always wore nearly every day.

"Well would you look at that, there is such a thing as a miracle," muttered Langdon sarcastically as the students started to mutter amongst themselves.

"Uh sir," said Amy then, looking back at her teacher. "I think there's something wrong with him." Her face showed concern, and when Langdon looked again, he was inclined to agree with her: Brandon's head was lowered and he was walking very slowly, almost dragging his feet behind him. And the exposed skin on his hands and arms were strangely pale. His mid-length black hair obscured most of his face as well.

"You might be right my girl," said Langdon finally, moving over towards the door. "One of you get the nurse. The rest of you, stay here." And with that, he exited through the door, his footsteps echoing down the corridor. Once he was gone, half of the class moved over to the window, craning for a better view of whatever was wrong with Brandon.

"Damn, he looks like shit!" said one unseen voice.

"He's on drugs!" laughed someone else.

"Shut up!" retorted Amy, silencing whoever had just made that comment.

But the voices stopped when Professor Langdon stepped into view, followed by one of the campus security guards. They approached Brandon briskly, who made no attempt to acknowledge them, even as the Professor called out to him: although the student did make a slight attempt to approach his teacher, taking a staggering step towards him. The campus guard stood by, looking somewhat uneasy.

"What's wrong with him?" whispered Michelle to Amy, both girls near to the front of the group crowding around the window.

"I don't know," whispered the redhead back, still watching the scene unfolding before them.

Langdon took a step forward and reached out to Brandon, asking if were OK. He put a hand on the boy's shoulder. And then the unimaginable happened.

Brandon swung around to face his professor, looking him straight in the eye. Then he lunged forward with unusual speed, latching onto the older man's shoulders with his hands. And then he snapped his head forward, his teeth digging into Langdon's neck. The sociology professor cried out in agony as Brandon dug his teeth in, tearing an entire chunk of flesh away in a single motion, his actions akin to a ravenously hungry beast.

Half of the class screamed in terror, and even disgust, at what had just happened.

"What the fuck is he doing?!"

"Oh God, he's eating him!"

In the next instance, the door slammed open and a trio of male students piled out, rushing to aid their professor, who by now was struggling to push Brandon off of him. Despite being a bit taller than the student, he couldn't manage to do so, and in response Brandon tore another lump of flesh from his shoulder, clothing, skin, muscle, all of it. By then the campus guard had finally reacted, grabbing onto Brandon and tearing him off of Langdon, the professor falling to the ground, an unbelievable amount of blood spraying from his wounds. A couple of seconds later, 3 of the professor's students came into view, one of them checking the fallen man and pulling out his cell phone to call for an ambulance. The other two tackled Brandon and tried to hold him to the ground, while the security guard fell away, clutching a hand to his bleeding face.

"Oh God, what's happening?!" cried Michelle, as Amy held onto her, facing her away from the grisly scene. Professor Langdon wasn't moving, and the one crouching over him, checking for a pulse just looked up at them, shaking his head sadly. Nearby, his friends struggled to keep Brandon on the ground, as the now-insane student thrashed about, trailing bloody drool from his mouth.

"Oh God…" whispered Amy, tears building up in her eyes.

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"Settle down class! Settle down!"

A group had gathered at the window, looking down at the scene unfolding just outside Professor Langdon's classroom. A crowd of students had gathered, as a pair of police officers lead a snarling, thrashing Brandon Shaw away, while a pair of paramedics hoisted a covered body onto a gurney, wheeling it away from the scene. No-one had seen the initial incident, but apparently Brandon had suddenly gone feral and had torn Langdon's throat out with his bare teeth, and had also left a member of campus security fighting for his life with a savage bite wound to the face.

"Why the hell would Brandon want to do that to Langdon?" asked someone quietly.

"I can think of about a dozen reasons," muttered someone else. "Langdon was always a prick, simple as."

"I said that's enough!" cried Dr Barnes, the class teacher, standing at the front of the room in his white coat. At the sound of his firm voice, he students moved away from the window and took their seats at their specified desks, already set up with their Bunsen burners and other scientific apparatus. Dr Barnes may have been an excellent teacher with an impressive track record, though his temper was notoriously short and his people skills left something to be desired. Even though it looked as though one of his colleagues had just died horribly, he seemed more interested in getting his class done in good time.

Ryan sighed as he took his own seat, running a hand through his hair. It was strange…Brandon may have been a slacker, but he was a decent guy as well. What the hell could have driven him to attack his own teacher like that? He knew fine well he didn't do drugs…as far as he knew.

"Mr Jenson?"

"Yes?" asked Ryan, glancing up to see Dr Barnes standing over him, his breath stinking of coffee and sweat, his face twisted into a confident sneer.

"I do hope your work for this semester will be…somewhat better to read than your previous efforts?" he asked. The attention of the class had been gained, even as the doctor continued to embarrass Ryan in front of all of them. He knew fine well Ryan wasn't the best student he had, and he took any opportunity to show him up in front of anyone else.

"Of course, sir," nodded Ryan.

"That's good to hear Jenson," said Barnes, turning away, before quickly turning back. "Because you know if I had my way, you'd never get a place in any of this country's finest research labs, let alone any in this state."

Ryan clenched his jaw tightly. Once again, he had the urge to whack Barnes in the back of the head with a baseball bat as hard as physically possible.

_You smug bastard…_

"Now then class, let's begin this semester with our study on body necrosis, shall we?" added the doctor with a smile.

_Sounds thrilling, _though Ryan.

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Out in the ambulance just parked outside the campus' main gates, a blonde-haired female paramedic called Dana fought to save the life of the campus guard who had been attacked by that crazed student from before, the same one that was now safely locked up in the back of the nearby police cruiser, even though it had taken three people to bundle him in as he fought ever inch of the way. The poor guy was like a rabid animal.

"He's on drugs, he's gotta be!" one of the R.P.D officers had yelled previously.

That same officer stood nearby now, talking into his radio, and also looking fearfully towards the insane guy now trapped in the back of his cruiser. He looked terrified, to be blunt. His partner was elsewhere now, presumably talking to the Dean, to try and alleviate the incident somewhat. One of the lecturers had been brutally murdered by his own student while the rest of his class watched: that wouldn't be very good for student morale, not during the start of the semester.

"Come on, stay with me!" she whispered, as the wounded man reached a hand weakly out to her. The blood had finally stopped dribbling from his facial wound, most of his left cheek ripped away in a messy fashion, his face showing resignation to his fate now. All of his shirt and jacket was sodden through with his blood as well, as though red were the garments' original colours. He reached one of his hands out to her, and then his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

"Shit!" she cursed, punching the interior side of the ambulance, before shaking her head and resting one of her hands on her forehead. Not again…this was the fourth person who had died on her watch this week, a total of 12 people over the last few weeks. People going insane and taking chunks out of one another…the stuff of nightmares. The whole town was going to hell, and the paramedics such as herself happened to be subject to the most grisly part of it.

With another heavy sigh, she reached out and ran a hand down the man's face, closing his eyelids for him. And then she glanced down at her watch, making a note of the time of death, and also wondering what the man's family was up to now, unaware that he had passed on. Who would break the bad news to them today??

She stopped when she heard the heavy groan from next to her. It was obvious who it was coming from. But that was impossible, she'd just watched him die right in front of her eyes-

She looked down at the body next to her, a dreadful feeling building in her gut, just as his eyes snapped open, revealing milky white, and then swivelling around to face her directly.

Outside the ambulance, officer Nathan Wheeler clicked off his radio in time to hear the sound of a scuffle and a sudden female scream coming from inside the nearby ambulance. The vehicle rocked a couple of times, and he took a tentative step towards the vehicle, just as the rear doors slammed open and two figures fell out. One of them was the pretty blonde paramedic (Dana her name was) he had just been talking to previously, but the other figure was none other than the seriously wounded man that had just been carted out moments previously.

His mind barely had anytime to process the scene before something even more shocking happened: the wounded man opened his mouth and lunged down, his teeth sinking into Dana's collarbone. She screamed in intense agony even as the man tore his teeth away, causing a huge spurt of blood to issue into the air like an erupting geyser. Wheeler's stomach did a back-flip even as the man went in for another bite, the poor woman trapped under him clearly still alive and struggling to break free, but she had no chance, what with being half of the man's mass.

"R.P.D! Let her go now!" he yelled, aiming his standard-issue Beretta at the scene, but the man completely ignored him, even as he hungrily tore into Dana's neck next, ripping her jugular vein out in a massive stream of crimson liquid. It was when she stopped struggling that Wheeler realised that she was dead.

"I said freeze!" he yelled, the panic in his voice audible. The once-dead campus guard continued to ignore him, even as he ripped a chunk of flesh from the poor girl's shoulder, hungrily devouring it with ravenous motions, before he tried to go in for yet another bite.

Kicking into action, Wheeler marched his way over the guard, grabbing him roughly by the shoulder and practically tearing him off of his victim. The man landed on his back hard, and Wheeler had barely trained his gun on him when he was scrambling to his feet, growling like a wild animal.

BANG! BANG!

Wheeler shot him twice through the chest, throwing him onto the ground once again, his arms splaying either side of him, as though he had just been nailed to a cross. Breathing with shock, his heart threatening to burst out of his torso, Wheeler got his composure back, enough to crouch down and check the girl's pulse as she lay near his feet, her eyes closed, blood pooling around his shoes.

The sound of one of the ambulance doors banging shut was heard.

"Dana? Oh Christ!" wailed the other paramedic, who had just now emerged from the ambulance's front cab, realising what had just happened.

"Sorry," said Wheeler sadly, finding that he couldn't detect a pulse on the poor girl.

"Oh Jesus…sweet Jesus!" cried the male paramedic, his tone high-pitched. He failed to see the staggering figure coming up behind him, until the R.P.D officer did.

"Look out!" he yelled, raising his gun. The paramedic turned on his heel in time to come face-to-face with a ragged-looking man, his face pale and his eyes empty, blood sprayed across the front of his chest and arms. He held his arms out, going for the other paramedic, who shrieked loudly in reply and made a dive back inside the vehicle's front cab, trying to get away from the insane man chasing him. Wheeler aimed his weapon after the man, ready to open fire.

Then he heard the groan, and the sound of someone shifting on the concrete, and he glanced down at the fallen campus guard he had just shot. The man was shifting, trying to get to his feet, despite the two wounds punched through his torso, the blood still dripping down the front of his jacket.

_You have to be shitting me.__ I shot him through the heart!_

Nathan Wheeler aimed down at the rising man, his face still slashed with terror at whatever the hell was going on. He was ready to pull the trigger when he heard another sound next to his feet. He glanced down, at the fallen body of Dana, next to him.

Her eyes snapped open suddenly, revealing milky white orbs with the barest trace of the pupils, that then swivelled around towards him.

_What the fuck?! She didn't have a pulse-_

She lunged up, grabbing onto his ankle and digging her teeth into his calf. He screamed in agony as his blood splashed onto the tarmac, before he regained his bearings, trying to force her off of him, just as the campus guard got to his feet fully and lunged onto him, digging his teeth into his exposed neck from behind. Officer Nathan Wheeler was dragged to the ground then and there, as two formerly dead people tore into him with their bare teeth, spilling what seemed like gallons of his own blood.

He tried to break free, screaming freely as he did, but to no avail. And his cries went unheard as well, even as the other paramedic was dragged screaming from the front cab, as a man much taller than him tore out his jugular vein, silencing him in a bloody gargling sound. And around this scene, several more people were gathering, a lot of them with blank looks on their faces, and covered in dried or flesh blood. A few of them were missing limbs as well.

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Zac nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard the piercing scream from outside the café. Turning on the spot, he looked outside to witness a rather grisly scene taking place outside. There was a middle-aged man wearing a tattered grey coat across the street, holding onto a teenager with black hair, while a few others crowded around, wondering what the hell was going on. It was only when the older man withdrew his head back that Zac saw the burst of bright red crimson that sprayed onto anything in range. He went pale.

"Oh God…" he whispered.

"What the hell is he doing?!" cried one of the other patrons.

"Someone call the goddamn cops!" yelled another, a burly bearded man with blonde hair and a beard, already running out the doors to assist. From behind the counter, Emma was already dialling 911 with her cell phone, her hands shaky. But she didn't get the answer she expected.

"_I am sorry, but all of our lines are engaged," _said a pre-recorded male voice. _"Please hold, and we will transfer you through to a line when one is available."_

"Damn it!" she yelled.

"What?!" asked Zac, only glancing back from the scene outside. The older man had knocked the teenager to the ground now, tearing a chunk out of his shoulder. He was most definitely dead now, as crimson pooled under his form.

"The damned line's engaged!" she cried back. Zac pondered this for a moment.

_All the lines are engaged…is something going on? There a city-wide riot going down?_

Back outside, the bearded patron finally reached the scene, grabbing the insane man in a textbook full-nelson hold and tearing him off of the young man he had just brutally killed. He tried to throw the man to the ground and pin his arms behind his back, but he broke free with terrifying ease, spinning around and taking a bite out of the bearded guy's arm. He yelled in surprise and anger, before he shoved the man backwards, smashing his skull full force into the brick wall just behind where they were stood. There was a wet smacking sound, and the insane man collapsed to the floor like a discarded puppet, leaving a red smear on the brick. He took a couple of steps back, looking down at his wound, while a few other civilians gathered around to see if he were allright, as the wound was bleeding pretty badly.

But then more screaming was heard, from somewhere further down the street, and the crowd's attention was turned away. Some of them started shouting wildly and pointing, before a few of them started to turn and flee down the street. And then the small group of people emerged from the dark alleyway, and the crowd went ballistic.

There were three of them, all male and all dressed like old hobos, in tattered coats and pants, with long filthy hair and beards. Their exposed skin was deathly pale, their eye sockets empty and emotionless. That appearance chilled Zac to the very core, since he had seen that very same look somewhere before. In an instant, the deathly-looking trio were advancing on the wounded café patron, who backed away in fear, but he was too slow as they slammed into him, knocking him to the ground, swarming over him and biting into his flesh, much like what had happened with the initial attack just beforehand.

Zac had seen a similar scene beforehand as well, though he were loathe to admit it: it was a literal feeding frenzy. From behind him, Emma screamed, a sound that drove him into some form of action finally. He grabbed up his backpack and moved around behind the counter with her.

"Hey! Try and clam down!" he cried, but that seemed very unlikely at the present moment, what with one of her regular customers being eaten alive right now by a trio of insane bums. But that would soon be the least of their problems.

Another figure stepped into view of the front window. It was a woman in her mid thirties, her curly brown hair obscuring half of her face, but the deep red splattered all across the front of her white blouse was very eye-catching to say the least. Then she turned towards Zac, and he saw that her nose and half of the flesh on her face was missing, rather gruesomely. She seemed to make direct eye contact with Zac, and he swallowed hard when he saw how her eyes were just a murky shade of white.

"Oh God…" he muttered to himself.

A new figure stepped into view, a portly man with a filthy white vest just hanging in shreds off of his shoulders. His exposed skin was covered in ugly sores and cuts, and his eyes were a murky white colouration as well, as he swung around to face towards the people still standing in the café, fixed to the spot in terror.

"What the hell's wrong with them?" asked a young blonde man stood in the corner, even as a few more came into direct view, heading straight for the café's front door. Most of them walked in a staggering gait, their arms held out before them, and moaning in a haunting manner. All around them, other people fled in any direction possible to flee from them.

Zac finally spurred into action again, looking at Emma in the eye. "Is there a back door we can take?" He may have been terrified as everyone else, but he couldn't let that overwhelm him now. He had to do something.

"Y-yes, through there," she said finally, through hysteric sobs. She pointed to a closed door nearby. "It's unlocked, so-"

"Fine," he said, looking at the other café patrons, still transfixed by the sight of the gruesome-looking people outside. "Go on, get out the back door, now!" They gave him a quick glance, before looking back at the view outside, where one of the crazed people had reached the door now, and was trying to get inside, beating at the door with their bare hands rather than going for the door handle in a logical manner.

"Now!" he yelled, and the three patrons still left behind finally sprung into action, heading for the back door and busting through, fighting with one another to be the first one out. Within a few seconds they had all made it through, leaving just Zac and Emma still in the café area, while the strange people outside continued to beat on the glass window.

"What's going on?" she asked, holding onto Zac's arm now, as they both stared at the people on the other side of the glass. Even more were massing in the street outside now, even as their was the screeching of car tyres, and a sedan suddenly plunged by, ploughing straight through several of those people crossing the street, before disappearing from view and crashing, the sound of crunching metal and shattering glass indicating the actual event. Several of the people who had been run over were amazingly still alive, reaching around with their broken limbs.

"I don't know," said Zac, looking at the people outside, staring into their empty eyes, their mouths opening and closing in a wide yawning motion. Their hands left smears of blood as they beat against the window. "But whatever's going on, we can't stay here. Where's your dad?"

"H-he's still upstairs," she said, glancing towards the door behind the counter that lead upstairs. "But in his state-"

"I know, I know," said Zac, glancing back at the people outside once more. "But if he can walk, go and get him, cause we need to get out of here now!"

"But go where?" she asked. The fear in her voice was unmistakable.

"Anywhere but here right now," replied Zac. "Look, I won't let anything happen to you. You've always been good to me, right? So now it's time I returned the favour." She looked into his eyes for a moment, feeling reassured by being there with him, a good friend as far as she were concerned.

"Now go get your dad, I'll wait here," he added. With a slight nod, she turned and disappeared through the door leading to the building's upper floor. Zac heard her footsteps going up the stairs, as he pulled out his own cell phone and tried to call the police again. He dialled 911 and waited for an answer, but it wasn't what he was expecting.

"_I am sorry, but all of our lines are engaged-"_

"Shit!" he swore, releasing the call. He looked out the front window again, at the monstrous people lining up outside, beating at the glass. They all seemed fixated on him with their colourless eyes, moaning in harmony. From somewhere nearby, he could hear the faint wailing of police sirens and gunfire.

_Finally, someone's doing something…_

Then he heard the piercing female screen from somewhere above him. His blood ran cold: it could only be one person. Without a second thought he dashed over to the door, breaking through into the stairwell and barging up the stairs, desperate to stop whatever was going down. He could hear the sounds of a struggle upstairs, and then when he burst through the door into the apartment, he saw a chilling sight.

Emma was wrestling with her own father, trying to hold him away, even as his bare teeth ripped into her shoulder, her blood erupting from the wound and splashing up the walls and even onto the pale white ceiling paint. He stared in horror at the scene: her dad, a somewhat grumpy, but still a kind-hearted member of the community, always willing to help anyone, even the most random stranger. And now he was attacking his own daughter, tearing into her as though she were a piece of meat.

The splash of crimson onto a row of nearby picture frames spurned him into action.

"Stop it!" he yelled, barging into Thomas Wyatt as hard as he could manage. The older man relinquished his grip and staggered back, crashing into a nearby display case, glass shattering and falling to the carpeted floor. Emma fell backwards, blood still streaming from her shoulder, her white shirt completely sodden through with blood. Zac caught her just before she hit the ground, holding her up as carefully a she could manage.

"Emma!" he cried, as her eyes flicked open and shut, but then he glanced up, as her father dragged himself to his feet again, the front of his white vest stained red with his own daughter's blood. When he raised his head fully, Zac had to resist the urge to balk.

Mr Wyatt's hair was matted and dirty, his exposed skin deathly pale, almost blizzard-white in fact. And his eyes…they were pale white, the same colouration as those strange people outside, the barest hint of the pupils behind that colour. The eyes swivelled around randomly, before focusing on him. Thomas took a single shambling step towards Zac, and moaned in a hollow manner.

_What the hell's happened to him?__ He's like those people outside…_

The man took another step towards them. He opened his mouth, and Zac saw his teeth were still stained with his own daughter's blood.

"Thomas, it's me, Zac," he said, trying to reason with the café owner, using his first name. "What are you doing?" Mr Wyatt said nothing as he suddenly lunged at Zac, arms outstretched, growling like a rabid animal.

With a yell of surprise, Zac suddenly stretched his body out, ramming his shoulder into the older man's stomach, forcing him backwards a little, before the student raised his arms fully and shoved him in the sternum full-force, knocking him backwards, off of his feet. As he fell, the back of his skull connected with a nearby table, and there was a wet 'smack' sound, like someone kicking a wet log. Zac yelped in shock at what had just happened, even as Thomas Wyatt hit the floor hard, and didn't get back up again. Zac stared at the puddle of red spreading below the now-dead man's head for a few seconds.

Then he turned back towards Emma, who was still lying on her back, the blood beneath her body now spreading to a terrifying degree. Her eyes weren't open, though she was still breathing, her chest rising and falling slowly. "It's OK, it'll be OK," he said, crouching down and holding onto her hand. And then adding, "geez, I'm so sorry about your dad…"

"Zac," she whispered, her words barely able to come out. "Thanks for…being…such a…great friend…and customer…sorry we couldn't…take things…further" And then her grip on his hand faded, her head slumping to the side. Her chest wasn't moving anymore.

She was dead.

Zac stared down at her for several seconds, trying to comprehend what had just happened. She was gone, just like that. The girl he had known for the last 2 years, the one that always knew how he liked his drinking chocolate, the person he knew he could confide in…hell, the girl he was sure he was falling in love with: dead, at his feet. Her blood was staining his jeans where he was kneeling down, and it was over the front of his shirt as well.

He felt something break inside of him. He bit his lip, resisting the urge not to break into tears. But how could he not do that? She was dead, right in front of him, killed by her own family. He glanced up at her father's fallen body again, still unmoving as his blood was now seeping through the floor. The smell of copper was strong in the air.

From downstairs, he heard the sound of glass shattering, and he knew that as much as it pained him, he couldn't exactly stay behind. He'd have to leave her behind, as much as he hated doing so.

"Goodbye," he whispered, letting go of her hand, and then crossing both her arms across her chest, as a final act of kindness for her. And then he turned and briskly made his way out of the apartment, back downstairs.

In the main café area, they had finally gotten inside. The crazed people from outside had now smashed down the main window, and were now entering the building, dragging themselves over the lower window frame. Zac stared in equal parts disgust and fascination as they just dragged themselves over the shards of broken glass lining the frame. They didn't flinch, even as the glass tore into their stomachs, ripping out their intestines and trailing it behind them. He made eye contact with the woman with her nose missing, noticing how she reached towards him with blood-smeared nails, moaning eerily, the same sound echoed by her accomplices, slicing themselves open in their efforts to reach him.

_This isn't happening…_

Somewhere outside, he heard gunshots and even more frenzied screaming, and the distant wailing of the sirens of emergency vehicles. He took a quick step back as the woman reached out again, and finally cleared the window frame, collapsing onto the floor, spilling her blood everywhere.

_This is just like those__ damned movies-_

The woman staggered to her feet and reached out for him, in a similar manner Emma's dad had done so shortly beforehand. He hopped back as she suddenly lunged, missing him and falling face-first onto a nearby table, completely overturning it. But she was struggling up already, even as Zac turned and made a move for the back door. He crashed straight through, and his rapid footsteps could be heard a she fled down the alleyway, away from the insane people with the empty white eyes.

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The screaming from somewhere nearby disrupted the class, causing several of the students, including Ryan, to sit up and take more notice.

"Now what?" asked Doctor Barnes, walking over to the window and looking down. He seemed to freeze for several seconds, before he turned and briskly walked over towards the door. "Class, stay here."

"Doctor Barnes, what's going on?" asked class-genius Casey Smith, rising to her feet. "Is there-"

"I said stay here!" snapped the Doctor, pushing through the door and walking off down the corridor. The class were left in a hushed silence for several seconds, before Casey broke the silence.

"What was that about?" she asked, even as a few others, curious, rose to their feet and walked over to the large window to look out. It took about two seconds before one of them turned back, his face deathly pale.

"Holy shit!" he yelled. "You guys need to see this, now!" he continued, prompting everyone else to rise from their seats and approach the windows, wholesale. Ryan was the last one to get to the gathering, but on his way over he could hear the excited chatter of the others.

"Oh Christ!"

"What the hell's going on?"

"Is that Tyler? What the hell's wrong with him?"

"What's happening?" asked Ryan, finally shoving past to the front of the group, but when he looked for himself, he didn't need someone to tell him.

Down below, there was something bad happening on the green. People ran back and forth, screaming in terror, while other people chased after them, moving in a slow, shambling gait. Some people seemed to be involved in scuffles, blood spraying out from wounds inflicted with what seemed like bare teeth. He saw Tyler Connor, one of the more popular students, tearing at the neck of the young female he was holding onto, blood spraying onto the grass around them. What the hell was wrong with him? A short distance away, another student fled in terror from a trio of ragged-looking people, glancing over their shoulder to see how much ground they had gained, until they ran head-first into another one that barred his path, dragging him to the floor and digging his teeth into his victim's shoulder, causing him to scream in agony, a sound that was heard clearly even all the way up here. Then the other three gathered around, tearing at the poor man's flesh, coating everything in range in sticky blood.

Someone behind him suddenly turned away and vomited all over the floor, setting off at least three others who emptied the contents of their stomachs where they stood. Some of it sprayed right up Ryan's back, causing him to look back in disgust.

"Oh Jesus, not here!" yelled someone.

Then the screaming was heard from down the corridor.

"What now?" asked Casey fearfully. "Are they in the building?"

"Someone call the police!" cried another, as cell phones were produced.

"The lines engaged!" yelled someone out of sight.

"Oh this isn't happening," muttered Casey, suddenly moving towards the door. "Screw this!"

"Casey, wait!" yelled someone else, and suddenly half of the class turned and headed for the door, wholesale. Someone slammed into Ryan's ribs, knocking him to the ground roughly. He landed on his front, bringing his hands up in time to stop himself bashing his face off of the ground. From down on the floor, he saw the countless pairs of feet forcing themselves into the narrow doorway, trying to be the first out. But he was only interested in his own thoughts right now.

_Those people out there…and some of them I know, tearing into one another like rabid animals. No, not like animals- like they're hungry: ravenously so. People going insane and feeding on h__uman flesh…it's like that movie. What's going on?_

He realised the class had emptied now, but someone lay unmoving in the doorway. Taking a deep breath, Ryan rose to his feet, glancing around him, and then looking out of the window again. Down on the green, it was now abandoned, although the bodies of at least a dozen students lined the ground, the area around them stained a deep crimson. The crazy people from before were gone now. Had they left or were they inside the building now. The screaming from somewhere nearby suggested not.

His mind was racing, but he had to try and keep himself calm, handle the storm one thing at a time. He took a few deep breaths, trying to memorise the best route back to his dorm, where he could lock himself in and plan his next move from there-

No, he'd need to find Grant first. He wondered if the literature classes had already vacated the premises, but first he'd need to get down there and see for himself. And he didn't need to go far either: head to the south side of the floor and then head to the ground floor, right outside the literature class. Simple. In theory, at least.

Outside a group of students thundered past, ignoring the body still slumped in the doorway. Carefully, Ryan picked up his backpack and looped it onto his back, still looking down at the body lying in the doorway as he made his way over in careful steps. He could clearly see the footprints embedded all over the body's back, inflicted by his own classmates in an effort to flee from whatever danger was awaiting them outside. Ryan didn't know this person very well, but it was still a damned shame for someone to die this way. He wondered if he should try calling the police, or an ambulance, but then he remembered what someone else had said about the emergency lines being engaged, so he dismissed that idea out of hand then and there. He carefully stepped over the body, trying not to dwell on the features of his face for too long.

He glanced left and right, seeing that the corridor was totally abandoned, though he saw that several papers had been left discarded on the floor during the rush to flee. Nearby he could hear a lot of shouting and screaming, from downstairs. It sounded as though those crazy people had made it inside the building now, so he'd need to move faster. He turned to the right and started to make his way towards the stairwell at a brisk place, the squeaking of his sneakers on the polished floor echoing down the corridor. He passed by open classrooms, all of them empty, although the papers left on the desks and the discarded rucksacks suggested that the occupants had just fled moments beforehand.

He passed through the main corridor of the upper floor, listening to the muffled sounds from below. A lot of hurried footsteps could be heard, along with a lot of shouting and screaming. And several sudden cracking sounds, in quick succession. He quickly took out his cell phone and tried to dial for 911 again, but he only got the engaged tone once more. He cursed and dropped the object back into his pocket, just as the door several feet away from him suddenly crashed open, making him jump out of his skin.

It was one of the campus security guards; his deep blue uniform stained a deep red now, clutching one of his hands to the side of his neck as blood poured out from a very ugly bite wound. Ryan backed away, eyes wide in terror, as the man slammed sideways into a nearby locker, and then slid to the ground, landing painfully on his back, his limbs sprawling everywhere. Blood pumped out of his neck as he gazed up at the ceiling, before he reached a hand out to Ryan, his mouth trying to form words and his blue eyes fading rapidly away.

"Help…me…" he gurgled, before his arm slapped off to the side, his eyes closing. Ryan continued to watch the body for a few seconds, as the pool of blood spread far beneath his body, almost touching the tips of Ryan's sneakers. He quickly took a step back, feeling the bile rising in the back of his throat. He glanced up at the door the guard had just passed through, which was still swinging on its double hinges, exposing brief glimpses of the landing outside, smeared with something dark and red. From beyond his line of sight, he could hear a haunting sound from downstairs somewhere. A chorus of moaning, from human mouths, could be heard from somewhere nearby. It was a sound that sent shivers up his spine.

Taking a breath, Ryan stepped forward and stepped through the door, descending the stairs one at a time. He was about halfway down the stairs when another hollow moaning sound was heard somewhere behind him.

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BAM!

Steven nearly jumped out of his skin when something slammed hard into the glass right next to where he was sat. A stack of his papers went tumbling to the floor as a result of his sudden movement.

There was young woman pressed against the glass, her filthy blonde hair obscuring most of her facial features, her black shirt and blue jeans plastered in what looked like dried blood and other vital fluids. It was all over her forearms and hands as well, and even down her chin and upper torso, making her look rather disturbing in all. But it was her face that was perhaps the worst feature: her lips had been ripped away, exposing her yellowed teeth, and her eyes…they were totally blank, nothing but blank white orbs that stared at him from behind the glass. Her roving hands left deep red streaks where they moved.

"What's wrong with her?" whispered a voice from behind him, as he was too focused on the woman's empty eyes.

"She's covered in blood!"

Near the doorway, one of the staff, the same one who had just approached Steven just beforehand, suddenly turned and quickly left the room, clearly heading out to see if the woman needed any help, but it was very likely she did need help, being covered in blood and all. After a few seconds of nothing but the low thumping of fists against the glass, the staff member appeared in view, reaching out towards the woman's shoulder, to see if she were allright. And then something terrible happened.

The woman, seemingly alerted by the nearby movement, suddenly swung around to face the young man in the red blazer. She lunged at him, grabbing onto his arms, digging her bare teeth into his shoulder. Bright crimson sprayed into the air, up and across the window in an impossibly tall arc.

Screaming rang out from behind Steven as he rose to his feet in shock, his eyes wide. The woman was still latched onto the hotel employee, tearing a bloody chunk of flesh free from the bone, even more blood issuing into the air. The young man struggled to break free, but despite being taller and more heavily built than the woman, he could barely push her off, and eventually the two of them fell to the ground, the woman tearing hungrily into the man's torso.

Yet another hysterical scream was heard behind Steven, and suddenly the other guests were running for the doors, barging past the Umbrella employee in their haste to escape. One man tripped over a chair and went tumbling to the carpet, as others passed over him, ignoring him completely. At least 3 people wedged themselves into the door, unable to fit through the door all at once. Behind the bar, two more hotel staff cowered, their faces fearful. One of them had a cell phone pressed to their ear, probably trying to call the police. Or an ambulance, after what had just transpired.

"The line's engaged!" yelled the young blonde man with the phone.

"What?!" shrieked his companion.

Steven was still transfixed by the scene outside. From the alleyway opposite the building, more people emerged, most of them covered in dried blood and wearing torn clothes. All of them had pale skin and a blank expression on their faces. Quite a few of them had some sort of horrific injury as well: deep cuts and gashes on their bodies, broken and severed limbs, one of them even seemed to be missing its lower jaw, but seemed undeterred as they moved on in a slow, deliberate march. The hotel employee from before was apparently dead now, as the woman responsible for his brutal murder rose back to her feet, her shirt and hands smeared in much more recent blood now. The other people behind her seemed to be closing in on the same spot, moaning in an eerie fashion. Some of them lunged for the closest civilian, tearing at them with their nails and teeth.

"Oh God…" he whispered, just as he heard the screeching of rubber from somewhere nearby. Suddenly, a car skidded around the corner, a blood-stained person splayed across the windscreen. The car careened straight through a pair of bloodied people, crushing them to death, before heading straight for the bar's window. Steven found himself frozen, like a rabbit in the headlights, before he finally sprang into action, literally throwing himself across the room towards the door.

The car went straight through the window without stopping, tossing several tables and chairs aside with ease and crushing the bloody woman who had been stood outside into the bargain. Steven's laptop and his papers went up into the air as well, and the chair he had been sat on just before was smashed away, catching him in the leg and slamming him into the wall, at the same time as the car made contact with the bar, where the other two staff members were still stood, dumbfounded.

CRASH!

There was a hideous sound of crunching steel and shattering glass as the car's front part crumpled like a soda can, its rear end lifting up and smashing a crater into the ceiling, before dropping back into the normal position. Black smoke billowed from the car's engine block, flames licking at the air. A few seconds later, the sprinkler system activated, dousing everything under the ceiling.

Steven pulled himself to the ground, intense pain flaring across his body where he had been slammed against the wall, though that were preferable from being crushed to death by a speeding car. The sprinkler water rained down on him, dousing him to the bone. He touched a hand to his head, and felt the warm sensation of blood from a cut on his forehead. He was tempted to curse, but when he looked towards the wrecked bar, where the remains of the hotel staff lay, crushed into the mass of broken wood and plaster that used to be the bar's rear wall, he stopped. He should have counted himself lucky not to have joined them.

He looked at the driver of the car, his face collapsed over the steering wheel. Blood was smeared all over his face, and he wasn't moving. It didn't take Steven long to figure out that the poor man was beyond help.

"Oooohhhh…"

He turned suddenly to see a trio of bloody figures entering through the smashed window, and Steven repressed the urge to vomit. The combined stench of rotten fruit and copper washed over his face as he looked down at them. All of them were dressed in casual street clothes, sodden through with blood and torn badly. Their exposed flesh and skin was deathly pale, and their eyes were empty, not seeming to focus on anything around them. One of them, a young man about Steven's height, reached out towards him, his broken fingernails dripping blood to the ground. Steven started to back away, and then he finally turned and fled, escaping through the open doorway, heading back towards the lobby.

He didn't know where to go, what to do. Should he try and call the police? But what would he tell them? That a load of insane people had attacked the hotel, eating one of the staff members alive? Right now, he was working on the basic survival instinct, to get to somewhere safe. His room came to mind. He still had the key in his pocket, and he wrapped his fingers around it, holding onto it for dear life, while he plotted his route out in his head.

_Go to the lobby…enter the stairwell, up to second floor…__take the left…end of the hall…_

He entered the lobby to a piercing scream, and he snapped out of his thoughts.

The double doors had been busted open, and now at least a dozen of those insane people were inside, going after anyone within reach, hysterical screams filling the air. One of them lunged over the front counter and tackled the receptionist, digging their teeth into the man's cheek. He screamed in a high-pitched manner as his attacker drew back, tearing most of the flesh away in an arc of crimson. Nearby, a burly man struggled to throw a woman half his size off of him, before two of the woman's companions literally jumped onto him from behind, tearing at his neck and shoulders. Soon enough he was dragged to the ground as they started to rip parts of his flesh away from the bone. Steven turned his head again and focused on a young blonde woman lying on the ground, dead, her eyes wide open and her mouth forever locked into a scream of terror. A teenage boy, barely 17 Steven guessed, straddled her body, tearing at her torso hungrily. There was a crunching of bone as he drew back, and blood splattered onto the front of Steven's torso.

He blinked in surprise, just as the boy looked up at him, munching hungrily on the flesh still in his mouth. Steven saw the emptiness in his eyes, and that was enough to spur him into moving on. He quickly turned and pushed through the door into the stairwell, ascending them two at a time. The doors swung shut, sparing him from the sight of the boy's disturbing stare.

_Up to the second floor…_

He rounded the corner and came face-to-face with a figure stood on the 2nd floor landing, one of the hotel bellhops, his head lowered, swaying slightly on the spot. Steven wondered if the man was allright, but when he glanced up and took a shuffling step towards the Umbrella employee, revealing his pale skin and empty eyes, the truth was revealed.

_Another one?!_

The bellhop took another step towards Steven, but his foot missed the step completely and he fell forwards, smacking face-first into the stairs and tumbling down the stairs. Steven hopped to the side as the body rolled past him, the stench of rotten meat passing by. The body slammed into the wall and bounced off, tumbling down out of sight, but Steven still heard it hit the ground with a crunch of breaking bone. He stood for a few seconds, but after hearing nothing else he made a move for it again, breaking through the door into the second floor corridor.

_Take the left-_

He turned left and plunged down the corridor, past the walls with the drab-coloured wallpaper and the identical doors. He could still hear the screaming from somewhere down below as the other guests were brutally murdered, but he tried to block it all out. His self-preservation instincts had kicked in.

_End of the hallway-_

He turned the corridor and skidded to a halt when he saw another figure stood in the hallway, right next to room number 220: his room. It was a woman with long dark hair and wearing a grey vest top, facing away from him, though the swaying motion of her posture gave away her current state, and smell of rotten meat lingered in the air.

_Damn it!_

He was so close, and yet there was one last hurdle to be cleared. He breathed hard, trying to formulate a plan of action, but another scream, much much closer than the last time, was heard behind him. He glanced over his shoulder nervously, realising that he had to move now. The sound of shuffling feet brushing against the carpet was heard now, and he quickly looked back towards the woman stood in the hallway, now approaching him in slow, deliberate steps.

Her hair obscured most of her face, but he could still see where one of her eyes had been seemingly gouged out, the remaining organ white as snow, just like all of the others.

_What's with these people? What's happened to them?_

He bit his lip and glanced past her, towards his room. He had to do it, make a run for it. He couldn't turn back at least. Taking a deep breath, he made his move, running straight at the woman. When he got within a couple feet of her, she made a sudden lunge for him, but he put his hands out, shoving her roughly in the sternum. She went backwards, falling to the ground with a thud, her arms flailing to the side. As he hopped over her, she turned onto her belly and made another grab for him, but she missed, and soon he was right in front of his room, taking the key from his pocket and jamming it into the lock.

_Open, damn you!_

The lock opened, and he ripped the door open, practically falling inside and taking the key with him, slamming the door shut behind him and locked it once again. He stepped away from the door slowly, even as it started to shake in its frame as the insane woman outside banged against the wood with her fists. And she was moaning as well, that damned moaning: a haunting sound that seemed to be heard throughout the entire building, echoed by the freaks gatering downstairs.

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"SOMEONE HELP ME!"

Ryan froze up when he heard the familiar scream from the room very near to where he was. He turned his head and glanced through the glass at the scene on the other side.

"AHHHH!!!"

There was a person spread over one of the desks inside the literature classroom, as three people literally ate them alive, tearing at their bodies and ripping away mouthfuls of flesh. Blood coated everything in range, as tendons snapped and bones were broken as well. Ryan moved around to get a better view of the scene, and almost wanted to throw up. The attackers…they were all people he knew on campus. Not particularly well, but people he recognised by face.

"HELP ME!!!"

Then he focused on the object of their attack. The man in the once white coat…it was Dr. Barnes!

Ryan stepped away from the door, resisting the urge to vomit there and then, but the doctor's pained screams could still be heard from out of view. Dr. Barnes may have been a total bastard who always looked for a way to show him up, but even he didn't deserve to die like that. He heard one last scream, that then merged into a bloody gurgle, that was dragged out for several seconds, before it finally disappeared under the constant tearing sounds of flesh from bone. Carefully, Ryan peaked up and through the glass again. Barnes was dead now, his body no longer moving as his killers continued to tear at him like a piece of meat.

One of them suddenly looked up, straight at Ryan. It was a young female, with short strawberry blonde hair and wearing a red plaid vest. Ryan knew who it was straight away: it was Ashley, one of the university's brightest students. She was a bubbly girl, as far as Ryan knew: but now the empty look in her white eyes gave away nothing of the personality she used to have. Ryan gulped before he stepped out of view, hoping that Ashley and her companions wouldn't come after him next.

He was downstairs at the literature classes now, but he couldn't find Grant anywhere. The rooms had all been emptied, aside from a few of those crazy people, which he stayed the hell away from. He couldn't find anyone, in fact, but there were enough corpses lying about: several of them he knew on a first name basis, and some he didn't know so well. But still-

He tried to think where everyone could have gone. Logically, they'd try to get the hell away from there, back home. But Grant and Ryan didn't live in Raccoon City, they both lived on campus. So had he headed back to the campus hall? It seemed a reasonable assumption to make, but it meant that he'd have to cover even more ground to get back there: and he didn't fancy going outside the building right now. Sighing in frustration, he started off again, heading down the corridor and pushing through the double doors into another length of corridor.

His sneakers squeaked down the corridor as he glanced through each door he passed, trying to see if there was anyone left behind. But he wouldn't be alone for much longer.

BANG! BANG!

Gunfire was heard, along with a voice from somewhere nearby.

"Scum!"

BANG! BANG!

Ryan quickly broke out into a run, crossing the corridor in a few seconds time and crashing through the double doors at the far end, in time to find the source of the gunfire. A lone officer from the Raccoon Police Department was stood in the hallway, his back to Ryan and his gun drawn. He relaised that it was one of the same officers that had dragged Brandon Shaw away just previously. From down the corridor, a handful of those crazy people advanced, arms outstretched. Some of them already had bullet wounds in their torsos, but continued to advance regardless.

The officer turned his aim and fired twice into the torso of a gangly male student wearing a black shirt, knocking him back into a locker and spinning him away. He was quickly followed by a campus security guard, his jacket ripped and stained with dark red. He was shot in the left kneecap, dropping him to the ground with a loud clatter, but he was dragging himself forward soon afterwards, moaning in a haunting manner.

"Fuck off freaks!" yelled the officer, shooting a red-headed girl three times through the torso, enough to drop her to the ground. A couple of seconds later, the officer suddenly turned, his face twisting into surprise to see Ryan stood there. The officer looked several years older than Ryan at least, with short cropped blonde hair, and blue eyes that had a fearful look about them. After a couple of seconds he suddenly yelled right into Ryan's face. "What the hell are you doing here?! Get away!" He then turned and fired a few more times at a man with most of his shirt torn away to reveal his desiccated body.

"Not without my friends!" yelled Ryan back, though he were almost scared out of his skin at the moment. He was surprised he was able to string a coherant sentence together.

"God's sake kid!" cried the officer back, reloading his weapon quickly. "Get back! These people are crazy! They already killed my partner and the paramedics!"

"What?" asked Ryan, flabbergasted. In the corridor ahead of them, he saw even more of those 'insane' people approaching from down the hallway. One of them was a blonde female wearing the green uniform of a paramedic, and recognised her as one of the people who had responded to the initial call when Langsdon had been killed, but now her gree uniform was marked with several deep wounds. What the hell had happened to her?

"I don't have time to explain, kid!" yelled the officer, turning and firing once more at the insane people. He clipped one of them in the temple, dropping them with a single shot. "Just get-"

Ryan saw the black-shirted student rise up once again, despite the very recent bullet wounds in his torso. He growled like a rabid animal before lunging at the officer, his teeth bared.

"Watch out!" yelled Ryan. The officer turned, his eyes wide in shock, and bought his forearm up in time to protect his face, but the attacker still sank his teeth into the young man's bare forearm, drawing blood in an instant. He yelped out in pain and shock, both of them stumbling back, the attacker biting down on the officer's arm bone, before he bought his weapon around, shoving it into the man's face and pulling the trigger.

BANG!

The student's head snapped back, a fountain of blood and liquifed erupting from his forehead as he crashed to the ground. The officer went back into the locker next to him, clutching at his bloody forearm. The wound wasn't deep, yet it was still bleeding at a high rate for some reason. The officer cursed under his breath repeatedly as he clamped his free hand over the wound.

"Damn it!" he cried, before looking up at Ryan. "Good thing it's not serious, eh?"

"Shit! You'd better get someone to take a look at that!" said Ryan, his pitch rising.

"Don't worry about me," growled the officer in reply, glancing down the corridor again. At least four of those bastards were left, but the closest one was about 15 feet away, and with the speed they moved, he still had some time to act. "You should go find your friends."

"But shouldn't you at least call for backup?!" asked Ryan, noticing the people getting closer and closer to their current position.

"The radios are all rammed to full capacity!" seethed the wounded officer back, still clutching his wound, blood seeping between his fingers now, dripping onto the polished floor. "There's no chance of back-up coming, trust me." As the words started to sink in for Ryan, the officer checked his current magazine and glanced back down the corridor one more time. The closest crazy was 10 feet away from him now. "Go now, kid! Don't die here, not when your friends need you."

Ryan looked between the R.P.D officer and the approaching crazy people a few times, considering his options, before he finally chose to act. "OK, fine," he said with a nod, before he turned and moved off in the opposite direction, towards the stairwell doors, glancing one last concerned look back the police officer, who only nodded in confirmation. Ryan glanced for a couple more seconds, before he plunged through the doors and ascended the stairs.

Officer Driscoll took a deep breath, hoping that kid would make it. Something in his gut told him that he would make it: he had that look of determination in his eye, the same look he was told he had during his days at the academy. He heard the shuffling of feet and looked back up at the approaching crazies, their arms outstretched before them. Halfway down the corridor, a door crashed open and at least half a dozen more staggered out, all of them former students at the university. He had no idea how, but somehow the dead seemed to be coming back to life and attacking the living: it was crazy, but there seemed no other explanation for it, after he had seen it with his own eyes.

But it didn't matter now. These bastards had killed Nathan, and he would make as many of them pay as possible before they killed him too.

"Come on you fuckers," he growled, levelling his Beretta towards them. "Bring it!"

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Ryan paid no heed to the gunfire from behind him, when he saw the scene taking place on the top landing of the stairwell. Two figures wrestled with one another, staggering back and forth in a to-and-fro match. One of them was Mrs. Cullen, one of the university's literature teachers, her light green blouse stained deep red due to a bite wound to her shoulder. And Ryan recognised the other blood-stained figure straight away.

"Grant!" he yelled, hastening his stride.

Grant Hetfield shoved back against his teacher hard, trying to keep her snapping jaws away from his own neck. He didn't know what happened: when people started screaming out in the hallway, the class had emptied. On the way out they were attacked by pale-skinned people covered in blood and various injuries, who made an attempt to get a hold of anyone in reach to tear their throats out with their bare teeth. One of them had taken a bite out of Mrs. Cullen's shoulder, but she insisted it was just a minor wound. Then moments beforehand, she had lunged onto Jennifer Murray, tearing her throat out in a single motion, and then tried to do the same to Grant in the process. And now, looking into the empty white orbs that lay behind his teacher's spectacles, he knew that he was fighting for his life. She made another lunge for his face, just as a pair of hands grabbed onto her head from behind, holding onto her blonde hair.

"Get off him!" yelled Ryan, tearing the teacher off of Grant and throwing her backwards into the wall. She slammed into it and let off a slight moan, before charging at him with an animalistic growl. She was acting like all those other people from before, the ones that had killed Dr. Barnes and Professor Langdon. What the hell was going on?

Crying out, he stepped to the side. Mrs. Cullen made a move to try and grab onto him as he moved away, but Ryan put out his own arms, grabbing onto and redirecting the maddened woman away from him…straight into the banister. The wooden partition snapped from the impact and Mrs. Cullen fell through, dropping down 15 feet to land on her head. There was a sick snap as her neck broke, and then she slumped to the floor, dead. Ryan saw her head was twisted to the side at an obscure angle.

"Holy shit!" he cried, backing away from the landing. "I just killed your teacher!" But he got no reply from Grant.

"Grant?" he asked, looking around. He saw his friend slumped against the nearby wall, clutching a hand to his shoulder, his eyes closed. It was only then that Ryan realised that his friend had been bitten, the blood still pumping out of the ragged wound in between his shoulder and neck at an alarming rate.

"Grant!" he yelled, crouching down by his friend and pulling out his cell phone. "Hold on buddy, I'll call for help-"

"Don't bother," sighed Grant, barely managing to be heard. "All the lines…are jammed…it's happening all…over town…"

"What?" asked Ryan, the enormity of that statement sinking in, but it was quickly forgotten with regards to the current situation he found himself in.

"Sorry dude," whispered Grant, taking a hold of his old friend's arm. "I…had to do it…to let everyone else…get away…"

"That's allright man," replied Ryan, tears starting to form in his eyes. "You did the right thing…like you always have." Grant smiled a little at the comment, but then he suddenly fell to the side, violently coughing up a mouthful of bloody spittle onto the ground. Ryan helped him to sit up straight again, blood staining his chin and face. Ryan could see the light fading from his dark brown eyes, even now.

"Sorry dude…I am…" said Grant, his voice barely a hoarse whisper. "Looks like…we won't get to…enjoy that…movie…now…"

And with that, Grant Hetfield's head slumped to the side, his eyes closed. His grip on Ryan's arm faded away.

"Grant?" asked Ryan, giving his friend's arm a shake. "Come on man, stop playing around…wake up man…come on dude, this isn't funny!" His voice raised at the end of that last sentence as he shook his friend by the shoulders hard, trying to get him to wake up, tears staining his face now. "Come on Grant, get up…get up, you can do it…All the things we've been through together, remember? Don't let me go on by myself now..."

Nothing happened, and this time Ryan shook his friend much harder.

"Don't do this to me!" he screamed, choking back a sob. "Don't go now…"

The sound of shuffling feet from down the corridor ahead of him didn't get his attention, nor did the constant eerie moaning. He finally looked up after a few seconds, and saw the figures approaching him from down the corridor…the same bastards that had taken his friend's life. Well, not exactly the same, but he saw them all as the same right now. He glared hatefully at the first figure, the young man in the black jacket and with half of his face ripped away: it was Will, one of his neighbours in the campus hall. Now he was one of them.

He couldn't linger here for much longer. With a heavy heart, he pushed himself to his feet, the front of his shirt and arms stained with dark blood; his friend's blood, and started to turn away, giving Grant's body one last look.

"Goodbye Grant," he whispered to himself, before he went off at a jog, leaving the moaning behind.

**A/N: Well know…I feel I'm getting into my stride with this story now, considering this chapter's length compared with the others I've published so far. Anyhow, from next chapter onwards things will start to pick up**** with regards to switching between the various characters. How will I manage this? Who knows, though it'll probably be like spinning plates.**

**And with regards to these 'movies' Zac and Ryan think about a few times? Well in Resident Evil 4, on the street where you enter the Grill 13's front door, there's a movie theater which is now showing a movie called 'Biohazard 4', which is of course the Japanese name for the Resident Evil series, so it seems proper to assume that there was a Biohazard 1-3 movies series within the game universe, which I have expanded upon somewhat in this chapter, and there will be other references in later chapters as well.  
**

**Anyhoo, R+R as usual please. **


	4. Chaos

Chapter 4: Chaos

**September 26****th****, 1321 hours**

Outside Raccoon General Hospital, veteran R.P.D officer Albert Jackson stood outside the building's main entrance, dragging deeply on a cigarette, tasting the sweet nicotine on his lips: taking a long-awaited break from their current work. He removed the cigarette and blew a long stream of smoke into the air, before he suddenly broke out into a bad coughing fit. He doubled over a she hacked a large glob of phlegm into his mouth, before he removed a handkerchief from his pocket and spat it out into the folds of cloth, quickly tucking it back into his pants pocket. If his son saw him smoking, he'd give him what for, but right now Albert needed the boost.

This was proving way too freaky so far. Someone appeared to have gotten into the morgue and had taken a load of bodies, all of them previous victims of the so-called cannibal killers: and someone appeared to have forced the door open from the _inside._ However they had managed that was beyond him, and the forensics hadn't turned up anything remotely useful: all the physical evidence in that room matched the hospital staff, or the bodies that had been stored there. Apparently, some invisible thief with no body hair whatsoever had taken those bodies. What for? He didn't really care that much though, to be honest.

From somewhere nearby, a couple of blocks away at the most, he thought he heard some loud shouting and screaming sounds. He paused and stared off into the distance for a while, perking his ears up, but the sound didn't come again, and he relaxed somewhat-

-and then nearly jumped out of his skin when an ambulance, its sirens wailing full volume, suddenly turned the corner just ahead of him, before plunging out of sight behind the building, towards the ambulance bay. He stood watching for a few seconds after it had gone, when another ambulance, sirens on full blast, plunged past him from the street behind him, making him nearly jump out of his skin for the second time in several seconds. It slowed down as it rounded the corner and disappeared from view, heading for the same place as the first one had gone. He'd only just begun to get his bearings back when he saw several groups of people running down the street towards the hospital main doors, several of them covered in blood or supporting their companions. Albert saw the looks of pure terror on their faces as they drew closer.

"What the hell's going on?" he asked himself aloud, before he came back to his senses and approached the nearest group to offer his aid. "What happened to him?" he asked the man's terrified friends.

"Some bastard attacked him!" cried one of the other men present, tears brimming in his eyes. "Tried to rip his throat out with his bare teeth!" Those words made Albert's blood run cold.

_Those cannibal bastards again? In broad daylight?!_

His thoughts were cut off as he entered the hospital lobby with the group of civilians and saw the shocked looks on the faces of the doctors present.

"Don't just stand there, help them!" cried Albert, as yet another ambulance approached in the distance.

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The halls of the Warren Stadium were eerily abandoned, the crowd having vacated the premises just recently following the attack of Hugo Chaser, the local team's star player, by some random crazed guy who had taken a chunk out of his neck. And that had only been the start, as several more suddenly crawled out of the woodwork. At least 12 people had been killed within a short space of time, and that number was steadily rising with time. The corridor underneath the western stands was littered with the signs of the recent chaos: trash cans knocked over, merchandise stands were looted, and dead bodies littered the corridor, most of them long dead, blood staining the ground they lat upon. Suddenly the door into the men's restroom crashed open and a pair of men in ripped and dirty R.P.D uniforms staggered out, both of them with their weapons drawn.

"Shit!" cursed Jeff Danson. "What the hell was that?"

"Don't know," replied Lenny Bristol, running a hand through his hair, before he looked down the corridor and saw the numerous bodies lying there. "Oh God…"

"Shit!" cried Jeff again, searching through his pockets for a fresh toothpick to clench in his teeth, but his pockets were totally empty. "Goddamn it!" he then added, after learning that fact the hard way. He kicked out a nearby trash can, to make himself feel better.

It was a miracle that the two men weren't trampled to death when the crowd scrum slammed into them: Lenny was sure he'd lose his footing and get dragged down under the countless feet, but Jeff was able to get a hold of one of his arms and pulled him sideways through the throng, into the relative safety of the men's restroom. It was better than being killed, at the least. Lenny started to frantically pat at his pockets, trying to find his cell phone, but then he saw it in pieces on the ground, some feet away from him.

"Damn it!" he cursed. Anna must have been worried sick by now, wondering why he hadn't replied to her by now. He had his spare cell down in the squad car, but they had to make their way their first of all. And who knows what else was lurking within the empty halls.

"Wonder where everyone else is?" asked Jeff, glancing around nervously. "Hey Lenny, see if you can raise anyone on the radio." His partner just nodded in acknowledgement, before taking out his radio and flicking to the open channel.

"This is Bristol," said Lenny sharply. "Is anyone there? If so, what the hell's going on?" There was no reply initially, just the wail of static through his ears, as Jeff set about checking the nearest bodies for any sign of life. "We're currently in the western passage below the stands, if anyone can hear us, give us a damned sign, anything!" Another burst of static answered him.

"Someone answer me, goddamn it!" he then snapped, the stress of the current situation getting to him. He was about to give up there and then, casting the radio against the nearest wall, when a voice finally answered his cries.

"…Lenny?" asked the weak voice of Dave Kowalski. "You're still in one piece?"

"Yes, we're still in once piece!" snapped Lenny with a heavy sigh. "Me and Jeff both, thank you very kindly!"

"Glad to hear it," said Dave breathlessly, ignoring Lenny's prickly remark. "What about everyone else?"

"We haven't seen anyone else," shouted Jeff from nearby, still crouched over one of the nearby bodies. The poor kid only looked about 17 years old.

"Dammit!" cursed Dave, who went silent for a while, before he spoke up again. "Look, I'm down in the loading bay with the backup," he explained. "You should get down here now, before anyone else gets killed!"

"Backup?" asked Lenny confused. He didn't think there was a need for backup to be called, though after nearly being trampled to death previously he was inclined to say otherwise. "Who else is there?"

"Well, at least 12 of us," explained Dave. "And some guys from S.W.A.T as well."

"S.W.A.T?!" asked Jeff, marching up to Lenny's side quickly. "Why the hell were S.W.A.T deployed? It's just a damned riot, isn't it?"

"I don't know exactly," said Dave, "but something big's going down. They've already been called out to a few other areas in the city."

"Is it something to do with those damned cannibal freaks?" asked Lenny, having a sudden thought, after recalling the event in the loading bay where that security guard was murdered by some random person who had wandered into an off-limits area. The guy had his throat ripped clean out.

"Who knows, maybe?!" replied Dave tetchily. "All I know is Peters got his throat torn out by some bastard 5 minutes ago-"

Dave's voice suddenly cut out, overwhelmed by a very sudden burst of gunfire, and various shouted voices.

"Shoot the damned things!"

"Why aren't they dying?!"

"Dave, what the hell are they shooting at?!" asked Lenny, his anxiety rising.

"They're shooting at those freaks, whatever the hell they're supposed to be!" yelled Dave back, over a few more bursts of gunfire. "They just won't stop coming!

"Holy shit, are those the fans?!" yelled another voice in the background, sounding somewhat thin.

"Wait, since when did shooting on sight constitute good police work?!" asked Lenny, sounding somewhat irritated. It was bad enough a lot of people had died so far, but it didn't help that the R.P.D were adding to that body count by shooting the suspects on sight without calling them off first.

"You think we want to do that?" asked Dave back. "They won't listen to reason, Lenny! No matter how much we try, we can't call them off!"

"Shit…" muttered Jeff quietly. Some jostling was heard on the other side of the radio, and then a new voice was heard.

"Lenny? Jeff? Are you both OK?" asked the unmistakable deep voice of Daniel Temple, captain and leader of the city's S.W.A.T force.

"Yes, we're fine…more or less," replied Lenny, with a glance down at his filthy and tattered clothes. He swore he saw at least a few dirty shoe treads on the lower half of his pants.

"Good, then get your asses down here now!" snapped the captain, over the heavy retort of a shotgun being fired from next to him. "We need every man on deck if we're going to get this dealt with. Where are you now?"

"In the passage below the western stands," answered Jeff immediately.

"Then the quickest route here is to take the stairwell at the south end, then follow the ground floor passage to the loading bay," explained the captain. "If you find anyone else on the way down, bring them with you. And get a move on, we're running on borrowed time here!"

"Captain!" yelled a voice.

"Oh Christ, more of them-" said Captain Temple, before he clicked off the radio link and was gone again.

"Damn," said Lenny simply, shaking his head and clipping his radio back onto his belt. Jeff stood by, his face showing great concern.

"What's happening then?" the redhead asked eventually. "We're all screwed then?"

"Who knows?" replied Lenny. "All I know right now is, we need to hook up with everyone else down in the loading bay, and then we can move from there. Besides, I need to call Anna as well…make sure she's allright. And my spare phone's in our cruiser."

"Right," nodded Jeff, looking either way down the passage again. "We should get moving then."

"Roger," said Lenny in reply, already turning and leading the way towards the nearest stairwell, casting a nervous glance towards the dead bodies they passed by, all of them dressed in the colours of their favourite teams.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Across town at Raccoon University, Ryan Jenson tore off his shirt as he entered his dorm room, tossing the garment across the room far away from him. He wanted rid of, the object still coated in the blood of Grant: of his friend…the lingering smell of copper in the air still reminded him of the fact he could only stand by as his old friend bled to death in his arms. He paced back and forth, breathing loudly and flexing his hands, before looking down at his discarded shirt again. Quickly, he crossed the room, picking up the shirt, then opened the dorm window and tossed it outside, as far away from him as possible. He was about to slam the window shut again when he saw the scene on the streets below.

He could see those 'people' wandering about, dozens of them, most of them drenched in dried or fresh blood, some of them ever with missing limbs, but seemed unconcerned by this as they moved about. They were all dressed differently as well: the majority of them were in casual street clothes, but he saw the odd one in smart business clothes, and even one dressed as a parking attendant. From somewhere down the street, a car suddenly screeched into view, ploughing through several standing people and slamming straight into a street light, bending the structure in half. A couple of seconds later, a swarm of them appeared around the driver's side door, tearing open the door and dragging out the driver, who was still alive. Ryan couldn't see the person's general features as they were thrown to the ground, the view obscured as the attackers swarmed around him, tearing into him with their bare teeth. Ryan quickly leaned back inside the room and slammed the window shut, shutting out the man's screaming.

He turned back to look towards the centre of his dorm room, his mind racing. What had happened? Where had all those people come from, and what was making them go insane and attack anyone else in range? He had a good inkling as to why, but it was a preposterous thought: that stuff didn't exist in real life, only in the movies-

He practically jumped out of his skin when his cell phone suddenly rang. He seemed to stare at the pocket where it was stored for what seemed like an absolute age, before he finally had the control to reach down and take it out, staring at the backlighted screen to read the caller ID. He felt his soul lifted when he read the single word on the screen.

_Zac._

He pressed the answer button immediately, shutting off the phone's jangling chime, and raising it to his ear. "Zac?"

"…Ryan?" asked Zac's tired voice after a few seconds of silence. He sounded extremely exhausted. "Is that you?"

"Yeah, it's me buddy," answered Ryan, his voice rising in relief. "Where are you? Are you allright?"

"I'm fine," came Zac's reply. "I'm somewhere downtown, but no idea where exactly…it's chaos down here Ryan, utter chaos."

"What?" asked Ryan. "It's happening elsewhere in town?!"

"Yeah," nodded Zac, looking outside the window of the antiques store he had taken cover in just recently. Outside, people ran by in droves, screaming in terror. Amongst them were the shambling freaks that had killed those people outside the café…the ones with the pale skin and the milky coloured eyes. They seemed to be coming from everywhere: out of the darkened alleyways, bursting out from the apartment building doors and windows; hell, some of them were even throwing themselves out of 2nd and 3rd story windows to get at their prey. Cars were crashed and twisted, several of them reduced to burning wrecks that spewed flames and smoke into the sky. There was no sign of the police, but he could hear the sounds associated with them; sirens and gunfire, from somewhere nearby, amongst all the screaming.

"They just came from nowhere," explained Zac, crouching down behind the store counter. "Killing everyone…they killed Emma."

"They what?" asked Ryan's surprised voice.

"They killed her!" snapped Zac in anger. "Her father…he turned into one of them somehow, ripped her throat out, like she was just a piece of meat!"

There was a few seconds of silence as Ryan let Zac's last statement sink in fully. "Shit!"

"I know," replied Zac, stifling a tear, sitting down behind the counter again, out of sight.

"It happened here as well," explained Ryan, breathlessly. "Brandon Shaw went psycho and killed Professor Langdon, tried to eat him alive in front of the rest of the class. Then next thing I knew, they were flooding in, killing everyone. They even killed Grant…he died right in my arms!"

"Goddamn it!" cursed Zac in reply. Grant was a great guy, everyone knew that. He didn't deserve to die. No-one deserved to die in this situation.

"I'm in our dorm right now, but if anyone else is alive, I don't know," continued Ryan, before adding, "I didn't see anyone else."

Zac was quiet as he took all this in, rubbing his forehead a few times. It was insane, impossible: but he had seen it with his own eyes. He'd seen Emma die in front of his eyes, seen her dad turn into a pale-eyed psycho. He'd been forced to kill him, smash his head open against a nearby table, in a desperate attempt to save himself.

"You know what this is like, Ryan," he said finally.

"What?" asked his friend, mind racing.

"It's like a Biohazard movie." That statement was followed by a dramatic silence. Zac could only hear the screaming and shouting from outside now, and Ryan's breathing on the other side of the line.

"I'm inclined to agree with you on that point," came Ryan's voice, making the first bit of sense he had done all day. "This could all be a very sophisticated publicity stunt for Biohazard 4-"

"-it's a very convincing one if that's the case," snapped Zac, cutting Ryan off mid-sentence. "People are dead; I highly doubt you can fake that."

"No, it's not a stunt," agreed Ryan, shaking his head. "Whatever it is, it's fucked up, and it's affecting the whole city. I couldn't get to the police, the lines were all jammed."

"Same here," replied Zac. "Those things out there…they must be zombies. I can't think of what else they could be."

Ryan swallowed a little at the mention of that word. _Zombies?, _he thought to himself. It was unthinkable, things like that existing in this world. This wasn't a movie, it was really happening. People were screaming and dying right outside his dorm window right now as they spoke.

"So what now?" asked Zac's voice suddenly, snapping him out of his train of thought.

"I…I don't know," replied Ryan, shaking his head. He wasn't a leader, he was just another guy caught up in all of this. But then again, he had to at least think of something to suggest in this mess, rather than just giving up there and then. "Zac, how close are you to the police station?"

"I don't know…a few blocks, maybe?"

"Head there then," suggested Ryan. "It seems a logical safe place to be for the time being. They're probably overflowing by now, but it's better than nothing at least."

"…OK," came Zac's reply after a while. It sounded as though he was struggling to keep it together at the moment. "But what about yourself?"

"Me?" asked Ryan, having not even thought that far yet. "I…I'll come to the police station as well. But I'll have a look around here to see if anyone else made it."

"But Ryan, god knows how many of those things are already in building!" observed Zac, sounding panicked. He didn't want anymore of his friends dying today.

"Don't worry, I'll just have to work around that problem," replied Ryan, glancing down at an aluminium baseball bat, propped up in the far corner of the dorm room. "I can take care of myself, remember?"

"You mean like that time you got hammered on your spirits and we had to carry you back to dorm?" asked Zac with a light chuckle. Ryan was silent as he remembered that night, and then he smiled to himself, his mind taken away from the current situation they were in.

"Well, better than that night, of course," he said finally, before clearing his throat. "Look, just worry about yourself Zac. We'll get to the police station, then we'll work on things from there. And keep your cell phone turned on as long as you can in case something happens, OK?"

"OK," replied Zac. "Ryan?"

"Yeah buddy?"

"Don't get yourself killed," said Zac. It was a simple, but powerful statement. Ryan let it sink in for a short while, nodding to himself.

"You too dude," replied Ryan, and then the line clicked off, the dial tone reverberating around his skull, before he finally pressed the release button, and ended the call, tossing his phone onto the nearby bed. He continued to stare at it for a few seconds. He wondered if Zac was fine, or if he was close to having a nervous breakdown, but he had to hope he would be fine for the time being.

_Be safe Zac…_

He turned towards the wardrobe next to him and pulled it open, retrieving a plain red t-shirt from inside, pulling it over his head and smoothing the front of it down. He looked at himself in the full-length mirror of the wardrobe door, noting his stern expression, contradictory to the maelstrom of emotions whirling around his head at the present moment.

_They're dead…people I've known for the last few years…Grant…goddamn it! Dead in an instant, because of those fucking…what did Zac call them? 'Zombies'? __This is so fucked-up…it's like I'm in my own Biohazard movie…_

He shut the wardrobe door shut, reaching his right hand out towards the nearby corner, where his favourite aluminium baseball bat was kept. He'd hit countless home runs with that thing, both during weekend games with his friends and during the university baseball tournaments. Many had said it was his lucky bat, the one he always used. He was about to take a hold of the object's handle, when he took notice of the other object propped up alongside it.

An old acoustic guitar, covered in a light layer of dust and several stickers, was also propped up in the corner….the same instrument that Grant used. The one that he never let anyone touch, not even his own roommate.

"Come on man, just a few chords!" pleaded Ryan.

"No!" retorted Grant. "You'll mess up the tuning. You know how long it took me to get that set up just right?"

"Oh come on, you really think I'd mess it up?" asked Ryan.

"Well someone non-musically gifted such as yourself may do mess it up just by touch alone!"

"And what's that supposed to mean?!" asked Ryan, incredulous.

"It means you're not touching my guitar!" cried Grant back, lifting it up and over his head, away from Ryan's grasp.

"Oh, you're going down Hetfield!" yelled Ryan back, charging into his friend and tackling him onto the nearest bed, both of them laughing loudly at their antics.

Back in the present day, Ryan bit down on his lip as he remembered that day. His roommate, his friend for so long…gone now, and he wasn't coming back, not now, not ever. He quickly reached past the guitar and took a hold of the baseball bat.

In downtown Raccoon City, Zac continued to sit behind the counter of the antiques store, his back to the wood, his head buried in his hands. Ryan was safe, thank god, but how many more of his friends were dead, eaten alive by those freaks, those 'zombies', as he had suddenly referred to them. Why the hell did he use that word, of all things? The same name as fictional creatures in one of his favourite movie series?

It seemed an appropriate word at the time. Those people out there…the pale skin, the shambling gait, flesh-eating tendencies: it all matched. He and everyone else were stuck a live Biohazard movie now…one that wouldn't be so easy to escape from, one with a very real possibility of a gruesome death. He snatched his cell phone from the ground and dropped it into his pocket, rising to his feet. He had to keep going.

_Gotta get to the police station…somewhere safe…_

He turned around and came to a stop when he saw the scene outside. Several of those people, or 'zombies' as he had referred to them now, were stood just outside the store front window, pressed against the glass as if they were shoppers searching for a bargain. At the very centre of the group was a middle-aged man in a dress suit, one side of his shirt sodden through with his own blood. The flesh on his face was peeling off of the bone, exposing his skull to plain sight. His eyeballs had the same milky-white colouration as all the others.

_Were the hell are the police?! They should be doing something about this!_

The zombies beat against the glass some more, and Zac finally got his incentive to move on again, slowing walking out from behind the counter and heading for the store's back door, hoping that none of them were waiting for him outside the back door.

Back at the Raccoon University dorms, Ryan Jenson stepped out into the dorm hallway, his backpack hanging from his shoulders and his baseball bat hanging close by his side, a tight grip on the object's handle. The dorm hallway had been abandoned when he had come past originally, but he couldn't afford to take anymore chances right now. The other rooms were empty as far as he knew, so where the hell had everyone else gotten to? He crossed the corridor into the stairwell, passing through into the other side of the dorms, wondering if there was anyone else who had taken cover within the halls for their own safety.

As he glanced down the corridor, he saw one of the doors was open ajar. Then a split-second later, it slammed shut suddenly.

_Is someone in there?!_

Ryan quickly jogged up to the door, standing outside for a few seconds, listening intently to see if he could hear anything inside, but he couldn't initially. Then he perked his ears up, and he could hear whispered noise from inside, someone muttering to themselves over and over again quietly. Slowly, he raised one of his hands and rapped on the door a few times. The whispering from inside ceased.

"Hey, is there someone in there?" he asked, loud enough to be heard. There was a deep silence to begin with, but then Ryan spoke up again. "Look, I'm not one of those…zombies." He felt somewhat ridiculous even saying that word.

"…who is it?" asked a male voice, after several seconds of silence. The voice sounded weak and very hoarse, and Ryan didn't recognise it initially.

"It's me, Ryan," replied Ryan after a brief pause. There was another long silence, and Ryan spoke up again, to try and make the dorm's occupant feel more relaxed now in light of current events.

"…Ryan Jenson?" asked the mystery voice. "Well…I didn't expect to find anyone else alive…all the others are gone."

"Are you alone?" asked Ryan, trying to build some more bridges with this survivor. He had to make allies anywhere he could, even if half of the campus were like total strangers to him. "Did you see anyone else get away?"

"They're dead," muttered the voice. "They're all dead, right in front of me…those freaks ate them alive…chewing on them like pieces of meat, like they were nothing!" There was a pause, followed by a sudden burst of laughter. "All dead, all dead, all dead…" the figure continued, his voice a muttered blur.

There was another laugh from behind the door, but it wasn't a normal laugh. It sounded…desperate, insane almost. Almost as though this poor soul had totally lost it in the wake of the madness which had engulfed the city. Either way, it was a sound that sent cold shivers down Ryan's spine.

"Look, what's your name?" asked Ryan, trying to build some more ground with the stranger behind the locked door. There was another painfully-long silence before he had his reply.

"…Eric," came the voice finally.

It was most likely this was Eric Chambers, who lived on this side of the dorm, as far as Ryan knew. It was likely he had locked himself into his own room. But as far as Ryan also knew, Eric Chambers had a reputation as something of a reckless character, with a strong fascination with guns. In fact, he'd even gotten into trouble a couple of times for bringing guns onto the campus. Why he hadn't been thrown out of the university yet, only god knew. And right now he could think of better people to be stuck up a creek without a paddle.

"Eric, are you allright?" asked Ryan. "You're not hurt, are you?"

"No…" replied Eric quietly. His sounded disinterested now, barely there at all.

"That's good," nodded Ryan. "Look, I was getting out of here before things get worse. Come with me."

"…sorry, but I think I'll stay right here," replied Eric quickly. "I'm not going one more step out there, no way in hell!"

"But there's safety in numbers, right?" reasoned Ryan, trying to get through to Eric. "And if you just stay in there, they're going to find you and break the door down. And when that happens, you'll have nowhere else to run to."

There was a silence from the other side of the door, almost as if Ryan's words were starting to sink in, to make more sense.

"…well?" Ryan asked finally. "What's it gonna be?"

"Sorry, but as I said before, I'll stay here, thanks," was Eric's quick reply. Ryan just blinked in surprise. He'd made a pretty good argument for moving on rather than staying in one place, and Eric had just turned him down flat.

"Stay here?" asked Ryan. "Even though they're bound to find you and kill you?"

"I've got a gun, I can fight them off," replied Eric blankly.

"But how many bullets have you got?" retorted Ryan.

"Enough," was the reply.

"Come on man, at least let me in see you're still in one piece," said Ryan, reaching for the door handle.

"Don't!" snapped Eric savagely, making Ryan take a step back in shock. Then his voice was heard again, this time sounding meek. "Don't open that door."

"Why not?" asked Ryan.

"You'll let them in if you do open that door," reasoned Eric.

"There's no-one else out here," replied Ryan. "Just let me in-"

"Don't!" yelled Eric yet again, his voice stricken with terror. "If you open that door, I'll shoot you, I swear to God."

Ryan took a full step backwards, nearly blown over by Eric's most recent statement. It was unprecedented: he was offering his help to one of his fellow students, making a logical argument in convincing him to come with him to escape; and Eric had threatened to shoot him in response.

"Is it really so easy for you to do that?" asked Ryan, still reeling.

"If it'll help keep me alive, then I'll do it," retorted Eric. "Just like that…"

_He's lost it…_thought Ryan to himself. _He's totally lost it. _It wouldn't be worth him trying to talk Eric around anymore: he was clearly beyond reason now. But he couldn't just walk away and leave him there either. He had to at least do or say something to make him feel somewhat better.

"Fine, have it your way," he said loudly. "But if you change your mind, then come and find me. It's better if you try and live rather than giving up already." No reply was heard, as Eric resumed his inane muttering to himself. Ryan slowly started to back away from the door, hoping that his fellow student would reconsider his offer. But nothing else was heard. With a heavy sigh, Ryan turned and walked away down the corridor, his feet scuffing against the target. He'd made it to the stairwell when he heard another sound behind him.

BANG!

The sudden discharge of a gun was heard, followed by the sound of something hitting the ground. Ryan looked back towards Eric's dorm room, and bit down on his lip, his blood running cold. Quickly, he headed back towards the dorm, finding that the door was left ajar once again. The room was practically empty, save for Eric's body, slumped up against the far wall. There was a revolver-style handgun in his right hand, and there was a smoking hole in the top part of his head, where the single bullet had exited. His blue shirt and jeans were totally sodden through with his blood, while the wall and window behind him was marked with a sheer spray of crimson liquid and chunks of brain matter.

"Dammit," Ryan cursed quietly, before heading back towards the stairwell.

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"You hear that?" hissed Jeff suddenly.

"What?" asked Lenny, coming to a halt. They were in one of the lower corridors now, which like all the others was eerily quiet, aside from the faint discharge of gunshots somewhere nearby. The signs of chaos were here too though: knocked over trash cans and bloody smears marked the floor in several places. The tinge of copper could be detected in the air.

"That!" said Jeff, holding one of his hands up. Lenny held his breath for a couple of seconds, and then he heard it too: the hushed sounds of people talking among one another, somewhere very close by.

"We gotta make a move now, dammit!" said one voice.

"To hell with that!" yelled another one. "They're everywhere!"

"Someone's still alive?" asked Lenny quietly. Jeff just nodded slowly, holding his Beretta close to him and pointing towards a nearby door, into the men's restroom. The voices seemed to be emanating from behind the door. Silently, the two officers took up position on either side of the closed door, executing a textbook manoeuvre. The two of them shared a quick nod, and then Jeff rapped loudly on the door with his closed fist.

"R.P.D! Who's in there?" he yelled. The raised voices stopped suddenly.

"Oh shit, they're out there!" wailed one voice. "Don't let them in!"

"We're not like those other things!" cried Jeff. "We're here to help!"

"…r-really?" asked the other voice. There was a pause. "Hold on, we're coming out!"

Lenny and Jeff glanced at one another, just as the sound of footsteps were heard from inside the room. The two of them moved away from the door, just as it opened up and two young men, both of them teens at the most, stepped out. Both were wearing the red and black of the Old Court Thunders, their faces slashed with barely-disguised terror, and splashes of blood.

"What the hell's going on?!" asked one of them, with short-cropped blonde hair.

"I already know the answer to that!" yelled his companion, with longer deep brown hair. "It's the goddamned apocalypse!"

"Hey!" shouted Lenny, getting their undivided attention suddenly. "Are either of you hurt?" They both shook their heads in unison.

"You with anyone else?" asked Jeff, immediately afterwards.

"N-no, just us officer," replied the blonde one. "Those…things killed everyone else we were with."

"They didn't just kill them!" cried the dark-haired one. "They ate them alive! Right in front of our eyes!"

"Oh God, it was horrible man, just horrible!" wailed the blonde one loudly, close to tears. The two R.P.D officers looked at one another as the two young men continued on, sounding as though they were about to have a nervous breakdown.

"Hey come on, that's enough!" said Jeff firmly, shutting them both up. "We're getting you both out of here, now. Come with us if you want to live." The two fans looked at one another nervously, as Lenny stood off to the side, glancing down the corridor the way he and Jeff had just come, his weapon drawn.

"Better hurry up, partner," muttered Lenny, even as he saw the figures approaching from down the corridor: three of them, moving in a shambling manner, moaning in an eerie chorus. The sound they made certainly made a shiver run up his spine.

"Oh God…not again!" wailed one of the surviving fans. "We're so dead!"

"What the hell's up with them?" asked Jeff quietly.

"Jeff, get them out here," ordered Lenny, standing his ground. "I'll take care of these guys."

"Fine," nodded Jeff, turning back towards the two hysterical football fans. "Come with me both of you, we'll get you out of here in one piece." The two of them looked at one another nervously, and then finally complied, following after Jeff as the redheaded officer started to move off down the corridor, looking over his shoulder. "Don't overdo yourself Lenny!"

"I won't," replied Lenny quietly, as he heard the three pairs of footsteps moving away down the corridor behind. Meanwhile, the trio of figures that were approaching Lenny ahead of him had now swelled up to at least half a dozen figures, all of them approaching in the same shambling gait. Lenny tightened his hold on his weapon.

"Raccoon Police Department!" he yelled. "Stay where you are and don't move!" The mysery figures ignored him, continuing their relentless advance. Lenny stood his ground, though he were feeling somewhat unnerved right about now. One of the figures moved into the light, and he saw they were covered in fresh blood, smeared all across the front of his torso and his upper arms.

Then the smell hit him, flooding into his nostrils. There was the coppery tinge of blood, mixed with the stench of rotten fruit, and some other stench as well: the aroma of decaying flesh, of bodies that had been dead for a very long time. The combined stench made Lenny want to throw up and he took a quick step back, covering his mouth and gagging, just as he got a good look at the face of the first figure.

It was a man around Lenny's height, wearing jeans and a black plaid shirt, both of them sodden through with blood, but whether it belonged to him or one of his recent victims, Lenny couldn't tell. The man's ragged red beard was matted with blood and filth, and his exposed skin was deathly pale. And his eyes…there was nothing behind them, just a murky shade of white. Lenny stared into them with fear, and at the one lining up behind this first one…all of them with the same blank eyes and pale skin. But all were different in their own way.

One of them was a refreshment vendor, his apron torn and hanging off of his body with one strap, the rest of his shirt torn apart to expose an ugly bite wound to his collarbone. Next to him was a female sharks fan, the shark design on her jersey barely visible through the covering of deep red blood, her young face blank and marked with a grisly wound to her cheek. And next to her was a burly figure dressed in the blue and white uniform of the Raccoon Sharks themselves: one of the team's players themselves. He was still wearing his football helmet, so Lenny didn't know who it was exactly, though his pale skin was still visible beneath the face guard. And yet another one was stadium security guard, wearing his standard white shirt and black pants, except now he shared the same pale skin and white eyes as all the others.

_What the hell's happened to them? _Lenny thought to himself, focusing back on the figure leading the pack, the man with the red beard and wearing the black plaid shirt. He looked rather familiar, now Lenny thought about it some more, and then he finally realised: it was Robert Smith, their prime suspect with the cannibal murders. And judging by the fact that he was right here during this mess, it was pretty obvious that he was connected with them. Except this pallid and moaning figure in front of him seemed just like an empty shell of the man they had been after.

"Robert Smith, stay where you are, now!" yelled Lenny, aiming at Smith's chest. The cannibal ignored his order and took another step towards him, reaching his bony arms out. Lenny stepped back, trying to maintain his nerves. That goddamned stench wasn't helping much either.

"Put your hands over your head, all of you!" he then cried, switching his aim among the approaching cannibal killers, none of them complying with his order. "I said put your hands over your head!" he yelled, more firmly this time, but still they ignored him.

He turned his aim back to Smith, his palms and brow becoming sweaty now. He aimed down at Smith's legs, only wishing to disable his opponents for the time being.

"Don't make me shoot you!" he ordered, though his voice was sounding a bit flaky now. Smith took one last step towards him, and that was it as far as Lenny was concerned: he had given enough warnings. He lowered his aim toward Smith's left kneecap. "I warned you-"

BANG!

The 9mm round struck Smith's knee and shattered it on impact, enough to incapacitate any man. Smith shuddered in place and nearly slumped to the ground, but it was only for a brief moment. The man suddenly straightened up and took another step towards Lenny, despite the fact one of his kneecaps was shattered beyond repair, blood dripping down his jeans leg. Lenny stepped back, eyes wide in surprise.

_What the hell?!__ He should be on the floor by now!_

Panic setting in, he raised his gun and fired again, the round smacking into Smith's sternum at near point-blank range, forcing the crazed suspect to reel backwards a few feet, but the deranged man quickly rocked back forward, and he landed flat on his feet again, taking another step towards Lenny, who continued to stand there flabbergasted.

He'd just shot a man through the sternum: any man would have been killed by that kind of damage, and yet Robert Smith was still on his feet, still advancing on him mercilessly. And he wasn't imagining things either: he could still clearly see the blood dripping down the front of his chest, and the man's ribcage and internal organs were clearly on display: and yet he didn't seem to even register the damage, his pale face still wearing that very same blank expression. Lenny was on the verge of freaking out now, protocol close to being thrown out the window. He aimed at Smith's torso again.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

He fired three more time, all shots hitting Smith through the torso, his body shuddering from the impacts, blood spraying out from his ruptured torso, some of it splashing on the front of Lenny's shirt. The force of the hits caused him to stagger back further than he had initially, but it still wasn't a huge distance, and meanwhile the man's companions were closing in on the lone R.P.D officer, reaching out towards him with their bony hands.

"Get the hell away from me!" he yelled, kicking out at one of them desperately, sending them tumbling to the concrete ground hard. Robert Smith recovered and made a desperate lunge at Lenny, who backed away in shock, left with little choice for his next action. He drove the barrel of his weapon into Smith's face and pulled the trigger.

BANG!

The man's head snapped back savagely, trailing blood from his forehead, and he hit the ground hard, his arms flopping out to the side. The others walked over him, unheeding of his death. Lenny watched to see if Robert Smith could survive even that, but the fallen body didn't move at all, aside from the odd involuntary twitch.

_Didn't get up from that did ya, you bastard? _

But Lenny couldn't rest, as the others moved in. Quickly, he switched his aim and fired into the face of the refreshment vendor, the man's face quickly caving in on itself as he fell to the ground silently. The female sharks fan made a lunge for him next, and Lenny hopped back in time, her lunge missing and making her fall face first onto the floor with the crack of her nose breaking. Lenny ignored her as he fired past into the remaining two figures, forcing them to stagger backwards from the hits, but killing neither of them. Fresh red dots marked their clothing as they took the hits.

"This is insane!" Lenny yelled to himself, more as a means to try and calm himself down in face of the current situation. As he reloaded his Beretta, he looked up and saw even more bloodied figures massing in the near distance, some of them emerging from the stairs leading up into the stands, or the doors leading into the team's changing area. He saw at least two of them were tall figures in the full team colours of the Old Court Thunders, still wearing their protective gear.

_Even the team players are going insane?! What the hell's going on?_

They were massing now, at least two dozen of them now, and he doubted he had enough bullets to fight them all off. He really didn't have much of a choice, and he turned on his heel and made a run for it, down towards the loading bay, hoping that no more of those things would be barring his way. Luckily, the main passage was totally devoid of any life, though the odd dead body still lined the hallway floors. All of them were drenched in blood and well beyond any help, covered in countless bite wounds.

He finally came to the door leading into the loading bay; dead bodies piled several high just outside. Luckily, all of them belonged to those pale-skinned freaks. Just out of sight, he could hear a lot of shouting and screaming. Just before he rounded the corner, he raised his arms above his head and cried out.

"Don't shoot!"

"Hold your damned fire!" yelled another voice.

Lenny rounded the corner in time to see the pair of squad cars parked several feet away from the door, acting as a sort of barricade, and behind those were several police officers, all with their weapons drawn. A few of them were S.W.A.T officers, armed with much heavier weaponry, mainly MP5 submachine guns and the odd M4A1 assault rifle. Most of them looked pretty freaked out, mirroring Lenny's own feelings at the time. And beyond them were several more officers and paramedics, trying to tend to a few dozen blood-covered fans among a maze of at least a dozen vehicles. The combined sound of shouting, screaming and sirens melded together to make an unholy din.

Lenny passed by the front barricade, and a pair of uniformed officers ran up to see if he were allright. "I'm fine, I'm fine!" he yelled, brushing off their offer of help.

"Lenny!" yelled a voice from somewhere in the throng, and Lenny glanced around rapidly, in time to see Jeff's ginger shock of hair emerge, coming right up to him. "You still in one piece?"

"More or less," replied Lenny, as the two men were nearly smacked into one another by the thronging bodies around them. "What the hell was up with those freaks though? I shot one of them through the chest and he kept on coming!"

"You saw it then?" asked S.W.A.T captain Temple from behind them, at the barricade. His Kevlar helmet and the dark balaclava wrapped around the lower half of his face obscured most of his face: his visage was just a pair of intense blue eyes staring back at them. "Some of these fuckers are taking entire clips to go down…are they supposed to be on drugs are something?"

"To be able to take that amount of damage?" asked one of the other officers there, his weapon trained towards the open doors with the bodies piled up beyond them. "Sorry, but I seriously doubt that."

"Well whatever the reason, it's happening all over the city," continued Temple. "We're getting reports that isolated incidents are occurring all across the city…Raccoon General Hospital's rammed with incoming wounded, and there's a riot brewing in the Cider District as we speak."

"Shit," cursed Lenny to himself quietly.

"You could say that," replied Xander, one of the other officers stood nearby, "the emergency lines are pushed to breaking point, there's at least six major infernos all across the city-"

"Basically, we're in deep shit," affirmed one of the other officers nearby, messing around with a police cruiser radio nearby, the other line just a random wash of panicked voices. Then a load of inane moaning was heard from the other side of the open doors, and the officer at the barricade perked up suddenly.

"Shit!" said Temple. "Did any of those things follow you?"

"Y-yes," gasped Lenny, surprised that he hadn't mentioned that beforehand. "At least a dozen of them I could see-"

"Well better lock and load people!" growled Temple, loading his MP5. His fellow officers did the same, readying their own firearms, as the swaying shadows of human figures could be seen approaching against the far wall.

"Aw shit," muttered Jeff from somewhere within the crowd nearby. "Looks like this is gonna be a long day…"

That statement had just left Jeff's lips when a sudden realisation hit Lenny. His eyes turned to the far corner of the loading bay, somewhere beyond the ambulances and his fellow officers. In the far corner he saw his and Jeff's police cruiser parked close against the wall, abandoned. And his spare cell phone, the only link to his beloved Anna, was locked inside the glove box. His eyes fixed on the direct route to the cruiser, he went for it. His partner turned at the sudden sound of movement.

"Lenny!" yelled Jeff from somewhere nearby, but Lenny ignored him, heading straight for his car. He shoved past other R.P.D officers, past a few paramedics trying to tend to the wounded: and he shoved through the wounded themselves, almost dozens of them, the majority of them wearing the colours of their favourite teams: blue and white or red and black. Most of them had some sort of blood on them, and also wore that same blank, soulless glare that Robert Smith and the other people in the stadium wore on their faces: but luckily, none of them had those damned white eyes. None of them made any attempt to object as he shoved bodily through them.

"Lenny! Wait up!" yelled Jeff behind him, shoving through the crowd trailing behind Lenny.

Lenny finally made it to the cruiser, going for the keys in his pants pocket. He took them out, fumbling with them and then watching them slip from his fingers, hitting the cold concrete ground with a loud clatter. Cursing under his breath, Lenny stooped and retrieved the keys, before standing up and unlocking the doors in an instant, throwing it open and reaching through, opening the glove box and reaching inside, emptying its of its other contents onto the floor, before he finally dug out his spare cell phone, switching it on and dialling for his home number in an instant.

"Come on, come on…" he whispered.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Anna Bristol practically leapt off of the couch when the phone rang. She was so tense from the waiting that it was unbelievable. She raised the phone to her ear and pushed the answer button as firmly as she could manage.

"Lenny?" she whispered, waiting for her husband's voice.

"…Anna?" asked the unmistakable voice on the other end. Her heart skipped a beat.

"Oh Lenny, thank god you're still alive!" she said loudly, relief laden in her voice.

"Yeah, I thought the same," replied her husband, and she was tempted to burst out laughing at his deadpan remark. "Are you OK?" he then asked, quickly. "You and Lewis?"

"Y-yes, we're fine," replied Anna. "He's fine, it was just a cold he had, the sniffles. But he was so glad to see his mother, you wouldn't believe-"

A loud noise somewhere in the background of the line cut her off. It was a sudden sound she wasn't accustomed to, but something she recognised all the same: gunfire. Her blood ran cold.

"Lenny…what's going on?" she asked fearfully. "Who's shooting?"

There was a dread silence before her husband finally replied. "Something's…happened. Someone got onto the field and attacked the team from what I've heard…then the whole crowd lost it."

Anna glanced over at the TV at that moment, in time to see an urgent news report flash onto the screen: the banner across the bottom of the screen read 'Horror at Warren Stadium', and the image showed an aerial view of the stadium itself. It linged for a few seconds, before it zoomed in on the front area of the structure, showing the dozens of hysterical fans spilling out into the open, several of them tumbling to the ground in their haste to flee. Even from the long distance zoom of the camera, she could see that some of them were coated in blood. Then the reporter's voice came in.

_An unspecified incident has occurred at the Warren Stadium during the landmark game between the Raccoon Sharks and the Old Court Thunders. During the intermission, an unknown male stormed onto the field and fatally attacked Hugo Chaser, star quarterback of the Raccoon Sharks. Shortly afterwards, another unknown group incited what seems to be a riot, and the current death count so far remains unknown…_

"Lenny…?" she asked, quietly.

"I'm fine, don't worry," he replied, breathlessly, as another burst of gunfire was heard in the background. "But whatever's happened here is happening across the whole of town, from what I've heard."

"It is?" asked Anna fearfully, even as she walked over to the window and peered out, looking towards the centre of Raccoon City. Even from less than half a mile away, she could see a number of black columns of smoke trailing up into the air.

"Oh God…"

"Anna, whatever happens, lock the doors and windows, and stay out of sight," said Lenny firmly, as yet another burst of gunfire was heard. "These people…they've lost it. Don't get anywhere near them you or Lewis, do you hear me Anna?"

His voice seemed so distant, as she continued to look out of the window, the enormity of the situation sinking in. She realised now that the murders leading up to today was only the prelude to something much, much worse.

"Anna?"

"Y-yes, I hear you," she said finally, rubbing her tired eyes. "But what about you Lenny?"

"Don't worry about me," came her beloved's voice. "I can take care of myself. As soon as all this is over, I'll come and get you both, you hear me?"

"I hear you," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Lenny?"

"Yeah?" he asked.

"I love you," she said, honestly.

There was silence from the other side of the line, just her husband's worried breathing. "I love you too," he then added, and the line was cut off abruptly.

Anna held the phone close to her chest for a few seconds, tears staining her cheeks as her emotions were becoming a whirlwind within her head. What was going on exactly? What was happening at the Stadium? And who were the police shooting at? How many people had died exactly? Though with the ominous columns of black smoke she could see rising from the city centre, she guessed that something was wrong.

Snapping back into action, she dropped the phone onto the sofa and walked over the window, dropping the blinds but keeping them open. Then she went out into the hallway, approaching the front door and locking it with the key that was still inside the lock, and even slid the upper and lower deadbolts into place. Then she turned, making her way into the kitchen and locking the back door as well. Though her actions were calm and controlled, it was a pure contrast to the fear that was brimming through her veins right now. Her mind was laying out every single possibility for what might happen next.

Would a crazed mob smash down the doors, murdering her and her son? Or would they do something even worse to them? Dark visions of sickening violence raced through her mind. She turned again, and paused when she saw her son standing there in the middle of the hallway, looking at her innocently.

"Mummy, is something wrong?" he asked simply.

"N-no baby, everything's allright," she smiled, kneeling down in front of him.

"Then why do you look so scared?" the boy then asked, taking note of his mother's current expression, her cheeks slightly damp from tears.

"I'm sorry baby," she replied, smiling again and stroking his hair. "Something scary is happening today…scary for all of us."

"Then is daddy coming back to keep us safe?" her son asked.

"Yes, yes he will," whispered Anna. "Once daddy has made everyone else safe, he'll come and look after us, I promise."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Lenny Bristol sighed and rubbed his face as he ended the call. Anna was a smart woman, so hopefully they would be allright.

"You allright man?" asked Jeff from behind him. Lenny turned to face his concerned partner.

"They're fine, thank God," Lenny said, looking at the floor. "I just hope whatever's happening here doesn't make it out there to them."

"They'll be fine," said Jeff, putting a reassuring hand on Lenny's shoulder. "They're the family of Raccoon City's best cop, after all. They won't let some pale-faced freaks get the better of them." He punctuated that statement with a cheeky grin.

"Yeah, I hope so," replied Lenny, giving his own slight smile.

There was another burst of gunfire, and they both looked over towards the huge double doors where Lenny had arrived from. A trio of tattered figures advanced through the opening, before gunfire shredded through their bodies, dropping one of them. The other two continued to advance, despite the numerous wounds they had just received.

"What the hell?!" yelled a hysterical S.W.A.T officer. "Why won't they fucking die?!"

Lenny listened to that statement, and then his memory kicked back into gear, remembering the encounter with Robert Smith back in the corridor. He easily survived a shot to the leg, and several point-blank shots to the torso, and it was only a shot to his head that finally stopped him-

Then he was running back towards the barricade, drawing his firearm as he moved. He shoved past more of the surviving spectators, many of them backing away in fear when they realised he clearly had a gun in his hand. After a few seconds he was at the barricade, taking up a position next to Captain Temple, aiming towards the face of a gangly teenager with one of his eyes hanging loose from its socket.

"Bristol, what the hell are you-?"

BANG!

There was a puff of blood from the teenager's head, and he then keeled over backwards, dead. Lenny glanced sideways at Temple before he spoke up again.

"Shoot them in the head," he said. "Kills them instantly. Otherwise they'll just keep coming."

"I'll keep that in mind," said Temple flatly, raising his MP5 SMG and squeezing off a single shot, blowing off the head of the one remaining freak within the loading bay. And then it was all clear.

"That's the last one!" cried a relieved voice to Lenny's right.

"Stay frosty people, they might be more of them," warned Temple.

"Sir, there's a report through from Raccoon General!" yelled the radio operator, his voice sounding a little wobbly. "It's from Albert!"

"What's he saying?" asked Temple, taking his eye off of the double doors for just a brief instance.

_Albert? _Thought Lenny to himself. _Of course, he was there about the bodies being stolen from the morgue…_

"He says there's been a huge influx of wounded and dying civilians coming in from all over the city," answered the radio operator. "They're being stretched to breaking point…and he says there's a riot massing down the street from the hospital building as well."

"Shit…" cursed the S.W.A.T captain, bowing his head, wondering on what his next course of action should be. Stood nearby, Lenny was inclined to feel the same way. He leaned over towards Jeff.

"Temple looks pretty stressed out," he whispered. "Like he's carrying this whole thing himself? What about Chief Irons?"

Jeff scoffed loudly. "Irons? Don't get me started on that fat pig. Apparently when the trouble started he went AWOL. He's in his office back at the precinct, but no-one can get him to do anything. He's just ignoring us all completely."

"What the hell is he thinking, at a time like this?" asked Lenny, in disbelief. "So who's running things then?"

"Well at the moment," answered Jeff, looking around, "Temple's taking care of things on this side…while back at home base Marvin and Neil are taking care of things…I hope."

Lenny shook his head. It was bullshit: the police had to pull together to overcome whatever madness was overrunning their city at the moment, and their so-called decorated leader had gone and deserted them, right when solid leadership was needed. But on another level, he wasn't that concerned either: Marvin and Neil were good and popular leaders; they could do this without Chief Irons.

"OK, we can't spare a huge amount of help right now," said Temple firmly, looking at the radio operator. "Send Hawkes, Shepherd and Becker round to Raccoon General, and have them bring a supply of ammunition as well. It's better than nothing, at the very least."

"Affirmative," nodded one of the other S.W.A.T officers, who then turned and headed off to make sure the order was carried out. Then the S.W.A.T captain turned to Lenny and Jeff.

"You two, you can make yourselves useful," he said, his eyes set firmly. "We had a distress call from Driscoll and Wheeler through from the University campus. Get over there and see what's going on, and offer any help if you can."

"Of course," nodded Lenny, who then glanced over at Jeff. "Let's get going then, partner."

"Can hardly wait," said Jeff flatly, as the two of them turned and started to push through the crowd towards their cruiser. From behind them they heard someone call out.

"More of them!"

"Open fire!" cried Temple.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

In one of the corridors of Raccoon General hospital, doctor Richard Purvis staggered out of his office, looking somewhat worse for wear. His brown hair was matted with recent sweat, while his exposed skin looked sickly pale and his gait seemed more of a shamble than a walk. A concerned nurse asked if he were feeling OK, and he quickly nodded, shaking off any offer of aid. He made it halfway down the corridor before he suddenly stopped and leaned heavily against the wall, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling and taking a deep breath, one that lasted for several seconds, before it cut out abruptly.

Doctor Purvis remained in his position for a few more seconds, as other staff moved by, rushing to deal with the sudden influx of wounded and dying civilians they had suddenly been hit with. Then all of a sudden, the doctor pushed himself off of the wall and lunged at a nearby nurse. In the blink of an eye, he had sunk his teeth into her neck and ripped her throat out.

A stream of blood sprayed onto the ceiling and onto the faces of the other nearby staff. A wave of screams erupted down the corridor, even as Doctor Purvis let the poor nurse fall to the ground, turning and lunging onto a nearby security guard, blood smeared around his mouth. He managed to tear a mouthful of flesh out of the poor man's shoulder before a nearby patient slammed a crutch across the insane doctor's back, causing him to let go. Richard Purvis wheeled around, growling like a rabid animal, his blank eyes bearing no trace of any human emotion. A second solid blow to his torso threw him backwards against the wall, but he bounced off and lunged, his blood-stained fingers outstretched.

BANG!

A small crater exploded in the doctor's forehead, and he went stumbling to the ground with a thud. More screams rang out, and people looked back down the corridor to see R.P.D officer Albert Jackson stood there with his Beretta handgun drawn, smoke rising from the barrel. He took a few deep breaths to himself, before blinking and finally noticing the looks of shock on the faces of those around him.

"Everyone allright?" he asked, holstering his weapon. There were a few hysterical sobs from one of the other nurses present as she hovered over the dead body of her colleague, but otherwise everyone else was in one piece.

"Richard…what the hell happened to him?!" asked another doctor, who suddenly appeared and stooped down next to the fallen doctor to check on him. But he was definitely dead, owing to the recent bullet wound in his head. And the blood of his recent victims coated the entire front of his shirt and doctor's coat, making him look even more horrific.

"He went insane, that's what," said Albert coldly. "Just like what's been happening all over the city, from what I've heard."

"But…"

"Had he been ill recently?" asked Albert, glancing over at where the wounded security guard lay. He writhed about on the ground, screaming in agony, as another nurse and a patient tended to him, holding bandages onto his wound, the white quickly being soaked a deep red.

"He…said he'd been having a fever for the last few days," explained the other doctor. "But he just said it was something he'd get over soon!"

"Well he didn't really get over it that well, did he?" said Albert, rubbing his face tiredly. "Look, get their bodies out of here…the last thing we need is more panic being caused at a time like this."

"Y-yes," stuttered the doctor, before he ordered a pair of nearby orderlies to help him out with moving Doctor Purvis' body out of sight. Albert turned away from the scene, in time to see Jimmy, one of the other officers who had been there with him when the initial rush had started, rush into the corridor.

"Al!" he yelled, "it looks like there's a big crowd of people heading this way! And none of them look too friendly!" Jimmy was a young guy, barely in his twenties, with short cropped blonde hair and blue eyes that looked terrified right about now.

"Great," muttered Albert, following Jimmy out of the room.

A couple of minutes later, both officers were outside the hospital, on the open street. Countless people moved to and fro, several of them wounded or covered in blood, as paramedics, doctors and any other hospital staff available tended to them, but Raccoon General only had a limited capacity and that would run out sooner or later. Down the street, in the opposite direction from the St. Michael Clock Tower, a crowd was indeed approaching. There were a few dozen of them at least, and all of them seemed to advance in a shambling gait, in an uneven manner. About 10 feet away from where Albert and Jimmy were stood was a lone police cruiser, parked in a manner as to act as a barricade, blocking the path into the hospital. Harry, the other officer that had accompanied Albert to the hospital, was propped up on the cruiser's hood, aiming his Beretta down the street. He glanced up at his companions briefly, and then looked away down the road again.

Albert stiffened up when he heard that sound. A haunting, chilling sound that seemed to be all around them. It was moaning, a chorus of human moaning, that sounded hollow and empty.

"What is that?" asked Albert.

"It's…_them," _said Harry after a brief pause, pointing down the street towards the approaching crowd. "They're making that sound."

"What the hell's wrong with them?" asked Jimmy nervously. His face was looking almost as pale as the late Doctor Purvis'.

"Who knows?" replied Albert, stroking his chin. "Either way, we need to keep them away from the hospital."

"And how the hell do we do that?" asked Harry, his voice raised.

As if on cue, there was the blast of a police siren, and all three officers turned in time to see another squad car pulling up several feet away from, scattering paramedics in all directions. The doors banged open and a trio of men dressed in the dark uniforms of S.W.A.T stepped out, weapons hanging loosely from their hands. In double-time they marched up to the police cruiser barricade, taking up cover positions and aiming down the street.

"Hell yeah, back-up's arrived!" cried Harry happily as a S.W.A.T officer took up a position next to him.

"Wait, where's the rest of the back-up?" asked Albert as one of the new arrivals stood before him.

"We _are _your backup," he said through the balaclava covering his face. "The whole city's going to hell from what I've heard, and we're somewhat stretched to the limit."

"Shit," cursed Albert. "But still, we need any help we can get."

"Glad to hear it," said the S.W.A.T officer, pulling his balaclava off to reveal a rough-looking face with a fair amount of stubble and deep brown eyes. "Sergeant Hawkes, at your service."

"Well sergeant, thanks for coming," replied Albert, looking back towards the police cruiser barricade, as Harry popped the trunk open and retrieved the Remington M1100 shotgun stored inside, loading it up in double-time. "We need to keep them away from the hospital as long as we can, give the doctors and other staff time to work."

"Roger that," said Hawkes, looking over at his men. "We've got the go ahead to use lethal force: these freaks won't listen to any reason."

"That bad is it?" asked Jimmy curiously, checking his Beretta's magazine.

"And also, we come bearing a gift," added Hawkes, as one of his fellow S.W.A.T officers unloaded a steel box from the trunk of the car they had arrived in, setting it down on the tarmac just next to the parked cruiser. The officer then flipped it open, to show that it was filled with a load of spare ammunition, mainly 9mm magazines and shotgun shells, along with a few MP5 and M4A1 magazines as well.

"Oh hell yeah, it's like Christmas came early!" laughed Harry, helping himself to a load of shotgun shells from inside the container.

"Just make those last!" warned Hawkes, as his companions started to share out their own ammunition supplies to make sure that they all had a reasonable amount.

"We will, don't worry," answered Jimmy, his hands shaking as he tucked a few magazines into his belt for quick and easy access.

"Come on guys, time to protect and serve, as it says in the job description," ordered Albert firmly, taking up his own position by the cruiser's front. Then he glanced back at Sergeant Hawkes, who readied his own weapon, an M4A1 assault rifle with an under-mounted M203 grenade launcher.

"We're with you Albert," he said, pulling his balaclava back on and pulling back the bolt on his assault rifle, before shouting an order to his companions. "Lock and load! Let them get within 40 yards before opening up!"

"Sir!" bellowed the other two, both armed with MP5A5's.

Albert tightened the hold on his own weapon as he looked at the approaching crowd, still moaning in that haunting manner. A chill went up his spine, but he couldn't show the fear he was feeling right now: he was needed to lead them right now. He flexed his arm quickly and aimed at the person at the head of the group, a middle-aged man wearing a dark dress shirt, the front of his torso saturated in blood.

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The door creaked open slowly, and Ryan Jenson peeked through, glancing one way then another, checking for danger, but the area was eerily empty. Breathing out, he pushed through the door fully, letting it close behind him. Several lockers in the corridor had been ripped open and emptied, presumably by the owners who had left in a hurry. All of the rooms and lecture theatres in range were empty as well, the doors still swinging slowly on their hinges. It felt as though he were the only one still left in the building.

Right now, Ryan wanted to get away from here, to the police station, though he couldn't exactly cut and run either: someone else had to be alive, and right now he was heading down to the community area, the canteen and the games room, as it seemed a likely place for anyone to gather. And right now, it was just a stone's throw away from where he was. It was just down the corridor to his left and around the corner-

He turned the corner and nearly doubled-back when he saw the figure standing in the corridor several feet away from him, in between the doors into the game room and Ryan's current position. It was one of the campus security guards, though the fact he was swaying on his feet didn't bode well. Then he let off a guttural moan, and that confirmed it. It was one of those 'zombie' things that had just attacked the campus.

_Perfect…_

As if hearing his thoughts, the lone man turned slowly to face him, and Ryan finally saw its face. It was the same guard he had just seen minutes beforehand, the one who had bled to death right in front of Ryan, pleading for his life to be spared. But now his once-brown eyes were a murky shade of white, and his filthy exposed teeth seemed to gleam with an evil madness. He let out a hollow moan as he advanced with his arms outstretched.

Ryan hated to say it, but the man was blocking his direct route towards the community area. He had to be removed from the equation. Ryan took a stance and hefted up his baseball bat in both hands, allowing the man to take a few steps towards him, within range.

"Sorry buddy, no hard feelings," he said as he took his first swing. Within the campus' sporting circles, his swing was pretty powerful when he wanted it to be.

There was a crunch of bone as the bat made contact with the man's side, breaking at least a few ribs. But although the man shuddered from the impact, he didn't fall or even cry out in pain. Ryan quickly stepped back in surprise, staring at where he had made contact. The man's side looked as though it had suddenly caved in like jelly, and yet he walked on as though nothing were wrong.

_What the?!_

Ryan quickly took another swing, right into the man's kneecap. There was another awful crack of bone, and the man went sprawling to the floor, trying to claw at Ryan with his fingernails. The young student hopped back in time to avoid the attack, as the guard hit the ground face-first with a wet slap, blood splashing across the ground. But still the man remained, reaching out as he dragged himself forwards with his fingernails, moaning incessantly. Ryan was sweating now, as he tried to think of something to do: even with several of his ribs and one leg broken, this man still proved a threat.

Ridiculous as it seemed, his mind wandered into the realms of fiction, as he remembered what Zac had mentioned to him previously.

_They're like zombies from the Biohazard series…and the only sure-fire way to kill a zombie was to take out its head-_

A lightbulb went off in Ryan's head, as he took up his bat once more, and swung once again, this time aiming low, right at the guard's face.

_CRACK!_

There was an awful sound as his weapon made contact, and blood and liquefied brain matter splashed up against the nearby row of lockers. The insane guard let out a strangled moan as he flopped to the floor, the remnants of his skull contents spilling out onto the varnished floor.

"Oh shit!" cried Ryan, moving back as the pink puddle nearly touched his sneakers, and tasting the bile on the back of his tongue as he did, though he managed to keep it down for the moment. The body twitched a few times, but otherwise it didn't move again, even as he nudged the side of its head with the tip of his bat.

He felt somewhat bad in ending the poor man's life, but it was either him or the insane campus guard: self-preservation was a very strong instinct, after all. He looked down at the bat, still covered in sticky blood and brain matter, and grimaced slightly as the nauseating smell wafted into his nostrils, the need to throw up gradually returning to him. He quickly moved the bat away from his view and shook his head, moving on towards the games room.

If he had happened to have looked out of the window just next to him at the time, he would have seen the image of a lone police cruiser, pulling up within the main gates of the campus grounds.

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"Jesus," muttered Jeff Danson, upon getting out of the police cruiser. An ambulance and a lone police cruiser had been left abandoned several feet away from the open gates, the back doors of the ambulance left wide open, and the tarmac around the parked vehicle was smeared with recent bloodshed, but there were no bodies that it could have come from. Beyond the initial area, the streets and the campus grounds were deathly silent, devoid of any life.

Lenny ran over to the nearby police cruiser, its doors left wide open and abandoned. He stuck his head in and realised that the engine was still on, the key in the ignition. Reaching over, he removed the key and killed the engine. Then removing himself from inside the car, he looked around again, but the only sign of life he could see was his partner, who was now checking over the nearby blood smears, trying to make sense of what had transpired. But it was proving fruitless, as the stains just seemed to suggest a random feeding frenzy.

"This doesn't look good," he finally concluded, standing up. "Whoever this belongs to is definitely not alive anymore, I can tell you that much."

"Then where's the body?" asked Lenny, pointing towards the ground. "Did those freaks drag it off to have a late night snack?" Jeff scoffed openly at that comment.

"Honestly? Who knows," he said, walking away in a little circle, running a hand through his short red hair. "But, after everything that's happened so far today, I wouldn't doubt something like that happening."

Lenny turned away again, reaching for his radio, keying into Wheeler's and Driscoll's frequency, to try and see if he could raise them that way.

"Nathan? Pete? You there?" he asked, his eyes scanning the immediate area. "It's Lenny, is everything allright? If either of you are there, give us an answer." Nearby, Jeff stood with his Beretta readied, looking onto the campus green to see if he could pick out anything moving around, but the social area was still. Lenny's radio only returned a squeal of static which lasted for several long seconds. He cursed silently to himself, and then tried to line yet again.

"Guys, if you're there, give me an answer," he said, desperation creeping into his voice. More static was heard, for a brief moment.

Then another sound was heard through the radio- it was a very low sound, almost impossible to make out, but it was better than nothing. Lenny pulled the radio closer to his mouth, trying to make out the garbled transmission.

"Nathan? Pete?" he asked hopefully. "You guys allright?" He listened more carefully, and the sound came again, and then he realised what it was: it was a low moaning, barely audible: as if uttered by someone in their last moments. Lenny's blood ran cold, just as Jeff shouted out from next to him.

"Heads up!" he cried, aiming through the open gates onto the campus green. Lenny turned his head to see what was happening. From within the green, several figures could be seen approaching. Even from this distance, Lenny could see most of them were coated in blood and approaching in a staggering manner: just like Robert Smith, and the other people from the stadium. And a chorus of haunting moans could be heard as well, the very same sound that Lenny had been subjected to in the stadium passageways as well.

"Perfect," he muttered, drawing his own sidearm. As the figures drew closer, he could see that most of them looked young, barely out of their teens: they must have been the university students, before this madness has engulfed them. But among their ranks he could see a few mature adults as well, many of them dressed rather smartly: Lenny guessed they were the university lecturers.

"More of them!" cried Jeff, looking down the street to his right, where another crowd was gathering. That damned moaning was on all sides of them now, threatening to swallow them up.

"Our day just keeps gets better and better, doesn't it?!" yelled Jeff, anxiety creeping into his voice. Lenny was about to answer him when he looked towards the crowd emerging from within the campus gates, and he saw a familiar figure within the first line of advancing bodies. A man wearing the light blue shirt and dark-coloured pants of the R.P.D, his face wearing a blank expression. But Lenny recognised his face either way.

It was Nathan Wheeler. The precinct's resident trickster, the man it was impossible to beat at poker. Countless stories were told of how he routinely emptied the pockets of his fellow officers without breaking a sweat, and yet his cheeky demeanour meant that people didn't stay angry at him for very long. He was also a solid, dependable member of the police force. But now, his pale face and empty eyes had reduced him to something soulless and evil.

"Oh God, Nathan…" whispered Jeff, shaking his head. Lenny was inclined to agree with him, though he didn't voice his opinion openly: rather his shocked face did the talking. Those freaks were closing in on all sides from around them, and as Lenny swivelled around to try and keep them all within his point of view, he realised they were pretty close to being surrounded.

"We can't stay here!" he yelled eventually, frantically aiming back and forth between the nearest threats closing in. Three former Raccoon students approached him in a staggering manner, one of them dragging a broken and twisted leg behind them, but his lipless grin belied any pain he should have been feeling. Then again, Lenny wondered if any of them felt pain now, due to the fact that Robert Smith took at least 5 bullets without being slowed down.

"Shit!" cursed Jeff, as a young blonde girl with half of her scalp ripped off made a lunge for him, but he backed away, launching a solid kick into her stomach to force her backwards into a few of her cohorts, all of them stumbling to the ground. "Fine, let's go!" he then yelled, pulling away from the rest of the moaning crowd.

BANG!

Lenny unloaded a round into the face of a young man missing most of the skin on his face, throwing him onto his back, before he switched aim and fired a few more times, felling a few more figures within the crowd. He backpedalled away a few feet, and glanced back behind him to where their cruiser was parked, and he saw a few more of them emerging from a darkened alleyway, and he knew then they had to pick up the pace.

"Jeff!" he yelled.

"On it!" cried his partner, wheeling around and making a dash for the cruiser's open side door. One of them made a lunge for him, but Jeff shoulder barged the gangly figure out of his way, before unloading a few shots into the man's torso. Small red dots marked the figure's plain white shirt and he shuddered with each impact, but he remained on his feet.

"Headshots, buddy," cried Lenny as he continued to back away, firing off an occasional shot to take out any freak who got too close for comfort. Jeff only nodded in reply, before he buried one more 9mm through the man's left eyeball, exploding his brain out the back of his skull and dropping him to the floor, before turning towards the next one, a hefty middle-aged woman wearing a grey vest, her face slowly caving in, and putting a round through her forehead. She hit the tarmac with a wet smack, her blood spilling out of her body with ease.

Lenny practically threw himself into the driver's seat, pulling the door shut and strapping on his seatbelt, dropping his Beretta onto the floor between his feet. Jeff was right behind him, but just as he was dragging the door shut, a set of bony fingers placed themselves between the door and the frame, ripping it open again. Jeff glanced around, gazing terrified into the pale white orbs of a young man with his nose torn off and the rest of the flesh on his face practically rotting off of the bone. He reached out for the R.P.D officer with his single arm, before suddenly lunging the last few inches, his jaws snapping like a rabid dog, narrowly missing the redhead's ear.

"Ah! Fuck off!" he yelled, ripping his can of mace spray from his belt and unloading its contents directly into the insane man's face. The attacker didn't react, even as the mace burned deeply into the man's unprotected eyes. Cursing freely, Jeff bought his arm back and smashed the can into the front of the rotten man's face full force, breaking something and forcing the man to stumble back, tripping over the body of one of the other fallen freaks. He yanked his door shut shortly after.

"Go! Go!" he yelled, right into Lenny's face, who wasted no time in throwing the cruiser into reverse, pulling into a break-neck speed 180 degree turn, the tyres screeching in protest. When they were facing the opposite way, they both saw the small crowd of people blocking their way. All of them were advancing in that familiar staggering gait. Lenny hesitated, staring at the line of crazed people before them. Then he slammed on the accelerator, ploughing straight through a pair of them unheeding of the mess it could cause. There was the crunching of bones as they were dragged under the wheels and under the vehicle's body, killed instantly. A load of blood splashed onto the windscreen, but Lenny hit the wipers, clearing their view.

Jeff glanced behind him, as he saw the crowd swarming into the street outside the university campus, at least 3 dozen of them. And then Lenny threw the cruiser quickly around the corner, and the crowd disappeared.

"What the fuck was that?!" the redhead yelled finally, his voice sounding strained. "Where the hell are all those fuckers coming from?! And what the hell happened to Nathan?"

"I think he's one of them now," said Lenny in a calm manner, watching the road ahead of him, but they were abandoned of any life.

"But he looked dead!" yelled Jeff in reply. "Someone ripped his damn throat out! How the hell could he still be alive after that?!"

"I don't know," said Lenny, honestly. He didn't know what the hell to believe right about now.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Unfortunately, Ryan didn't hear the gunfire of the screeching of car tyres outside the building, so busy was he in searching the games room. The room was abandoned unfortunately, though the signs of the recent violence were present: a couple of bodies lay sprawled over the tables and at least one more was propped up against the pinball machines in the far corner. They were all severely eaten and covered in blood, but he recognised all of them by some other means: whether it be a watch they were wearing, or by some signature tattoo on an unbroken area of flesh. Ryan knew all of them on a first name basis, talked to them quite often…and now they were dead and gone.

"Shit," he said, kicking at a nearby table leg. This was starting to feel like a hopeless cause. But he couldn't give up yet…there were still a few places he still needed to check.

He walked back out into the corridor, glancing left and right again. He was alone, aside from the festering corpse of the former campus guard, his brain matter still settling around his shattered skull. Ryan sighed a little and turned to his right, heading towards the canteen area, at the end of the corridor. There was relative silence, aside from the occasional scream and gunshot from somewhere outside the building. Each sudden noise made Ryan flinch in surprise. His shoes squeaked as he paced down the corridor, letting his baseball bat hang loosely in his hand.

He passed by the door leading into one Dr Kaufman's science lab, and he heard a sound from inside. He quickly doubled-back, standing still outside the door for a few seconds, listening, but the sound didn't come again, as he tried to recall it in his mind. It sounded like something heavy being dragged across the floor. Ryan glanced down, at the gap in the closed door. The floor beyond his view was smeared with deep red streaks, like a bloody piece of meat had been dragged across the floor.

Swallowing, he took a hold of the door handle, and slowly pulled the door open a few inches. There was a gradual creaking of wood as the door was pulled open halfway, giving him a better view of the room beyond. It was empty, several of the tables overturned, smashed and broken lab apparatus littering the floor in certain spots as well. The bloody smears were more obvious now as well, leading from the spot in front of him, and around to the left, where Dr. Kaufman's desk was. The air was deathly silent, as Ryan held his breath for what seemed like an age, and then he did something he would very quickly regret: he spoke out.

"Hello?"

At the sound of his voice, a figure suddenly rounded the corner of the doorway and charged right at him, growling like a wild beast. Ryan fell backwards, eyes wide, as the figure raked at him with bloody fingernails. The student barely had enough time to bring his bat up, underneath the figure's chin, as both were carried into the wall directly behind. The air was knocked out of Ryan's lungs, his ribs flaring with pain, as his attacker lunged for him with bared teeth, gnashing just millimetres away from is nose. Ryan looked up, into the figure's blank eyes.

It was Dr. Kaufman, or rather it used to be. His beard was flecked with spots of blood and other types of filth, his formerly healthy brown skin just a pale white now, parts of it even peeling off of the bone. His white lab coat was marked with a large red stain, around the bite wound on his torso. Dr Kaufman had clearly died at some point: half of his neck and part of his face had apparently been torn clean off by someone's bare teeth, and blood continued to drip from the fairly recent wounds. The man growled like a rabid beast as he tried to get a hold of Ryan, but the student desperately kept the older man back, forcing his weapon underneath Kaufman's head. The doctor's foetid breath washed over Ryan's face, nearly causing him to throw up, but he maintained his composure.

But the doctor was definitely dead now: no-one could still be alive after taking that kind of damage. And yet he was still here, trying to rip Ryan's face off at this very moment. Ryan forced Kaufman back a little, and then finally twisted his arms, shoving the handle of the bat into the doctor's face, putting out on his eyes with a soft 'squish' sound. Kaufman staggered back, releasing his hold on Ryan, and the student gasped for air, the man's putrid breath finally out of his face. He barely had time to swing his bat around in a wide motion, as Dr Kaufman lunged at him once again, one side of his face partially mashed.

_CRACK!_

Kaufman fell to the ground hard, his head twisted to the side, his neck snapped instantly. The body hit the floor with a wet smack, blood splashing up the wall and onto Ryan's jeans, who only stepped back in relief and shock, staring down at the body at his feet. He grimaced in disgust, though still relieved to still be alive after his rather close call. Dr Kaufman may have been one of the more popular teachers at the school, but right beforehand he was just another one of those…zombies.

He didn't feel so ridiculous saying that word now. Zac's words were making more and more sense to him now, but it still defied logic. Zombies didn't exist, they were a work of fiction: but what was tearing through the campus was real, even if it was the sickest practical joke anyone could ever think of. He continued to stare down at Kaufman's ruptured skull, at the patterns of pinkish tissue within the shattered bone, until he started to feel queasy, and he forced his gaze away.

CRASH!

There was the sound of splintering wood from somewhere down the corridor, and he snapped to his left, to see one of the other doors smashed off of its hinges, a quartet of zombies advancing down the corridor towards him. He recognised at least two of them, though their faces were now disturbingly blank. He cursed to himself as he turned away and jogged away down the corridor, around the corner, though he still heard the baleful moaning from somewhere behind him as he fled.

He saw the double doors of the canteen ahead of him even just as he rounded the last corner, and saw the still body of another campus security guard, slumped up against the wall opposite the doors, propped up in a pool of his own blood. Ryan paid little attention to that scene as he sprinted up to the double doors, throwing his weight against them, only to bounce off. The doors were locked fast.

_No!_

He looked to his left to see his pursuers round the corner, their arms outstretched. At least one of them was moving in a shambling gait that moved at least twice as fast as his cohorts, his arms swinging slackly about as he moved, heading straight for the still-living human before them. Ryan felt the cold sweat forming on his brow as that decaying stench wafted into his nostrils.

"Is there anyone there?!" he yelled, banging against the glass portholes of the double doors before him, praying to god that someone was still alive to heed his cries. He heard the moaning, and glanced to the side to see that one of them was almost on top of him, slashing at him with its nails. Ryan moved away in time, but still feeling the breeze pass by his face, before he swung his bat out with one hand, striking the young man on the shoulder, breaking it and forcing it back a short distance, before Ryan's backswing caught him in the jaw, slamming him up against the opposite wall, sliding down without any resistance.

"Open the goddamn door!" he yelled again, planting his foot right in the middle of the doors, peering through the glass, but he could see little beyond the immediate area of the spacious canteen. And then there was a face in the window, wide-eyed, staring back at him. Ryan leapt back in shock, his heart leaping into his throat. But when he saw the face's mouth moving, he realised that it was someone who still had his humanity.

"Holy shit!" yelled a muffled voice from the other side. "You're not one of them!"

"No shit, Sherlock!" yelled Ryan back, anxiously glancing to his left again. "Now open the goddamned door!"

"Hold on!" came the reply, and the face disappeared from view, and Ryan heard the sweet sound of the deadbolt being slid out of place, and then the doors were swinging open, inviting him in. Blessing his luck, Ryan threw himself inside, looking back in time to see a pair of white eyes chasing after him, before the doors were slammed shut once again, shutting them out.

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Parked on an abandoned corner of Fox Street in uptown Raccoon City, Lenny and Jeff sat in relative silence, the car radio left on the open channel. Through the random bursts of static, they could hear countless reports and demands from both their colleagues and from the other emergency services.

"I need backup now, dammit!" screamed one voice, over a background chorus of moaning. "They're dead! They're all fucking dead!"

"What the hell are they?!"

Some random gunfire was heard, quickly followed by a blood-curdling scream that lasted for several good seconds.

"It's on fire! It's all on fire, the city's burning to the ground!" screamed a desperate voice from the Raccoon Fire Department. "We need another team out here, now!"

"The roads are blocked! Massive car pile-ups, I repeat, massive car pile-ups!"

"Those damned things are everywhere!" growled a rough voice over sporadic bursts of gunfire. "Where are they coming from?!"

"This isn't a goddamned riot," said one more voice, sounding miles away. "It's Armageddon, the end of days."

BANG!

There was a very sudden gunshot, and then the channel was free once more.

"What's going on?" asked Jeff quietly, removing the magazine from his Beretta, emptying out the rounds, counting each of them out carefully, before loading them back into the clip, counting them out under his breath again. And then he started the process over again, as Lenny watched. Without a toothpick in his mouth, he obviously had found another reason to cope with the current situation. And Lenny was thankful for him coping, rather than flipping out and losing it at the worst possible time. He needed his old partner there, to help him through whatever trials lay ahead.

"I don't know," said Lenny, the same exact thing he had said just moments before. Jeff had kept asking him the same exact question for the last few minutes as well, another coping mechanism Lenny reckoned. Taking a deep breath, Lenny picked up the radio and keyed through to Captain Temple's frequency.

"This is Lenny," he said quietly. "You there, captain?" There was a brief pause before the S.W.A.T captain's stern voice was heard.

"Lenny, are you allright?" he asked swiftly, over raised voices in the background.

"We're fine," replied Lenny, watching Jeff counting out the rounds in his magazine once again. "But the campus was infested with those freaks…and Nathan was one of them."

"What do you mean Nathan was 'one of them'?" snapped Temple, sounding incredulous.

"I mean he looked like one of them," replied Lenny, his voice low. "Pale skin, white eyes…it looked like his throat had been ripped out with bare teeth, and yet he was still walking around as though he were fine."

"He looked dead…" said Jeff suddenly, still staring down at his Beretta.

"Shit," cursed Temple on the other line. He was silent again as some more voices were heard in a heated discussion in the background, before he spoke up again. "Look, we don't have time to discuss what the hell's going on exactly; we got the call for all available units to head to Raccoon Street. There's a huge riot already gathering from what I've heard, and Chief Irons gave the go-ahead for lethal force to be used."

_Finally, Irons got off his fat ass, _thought the two officers to themselves.

"Shit!" cursed Lenny loudly. "What about the stadium?"

"It's totally infested by those freaks now, we left it to them," explained Temple. "We lost another four men trying to search out any more survivors: it simply wasn't worth it."

"Goddamn it…" whispered Lenny, shaking his head.

"We need all the help we can get on Raccoon Street," said Temple firmly. "Get your asses down here, now!" and with that, the S.W.A.T captain cut the line.

"Sounds like fun," noted Jeff sardonically.

"Well we'd better get compensated for all this damned overtime," muttered Lenny in response, hanging up the radio and throwing the car into gear, turning the key in the ignition, the engine roaring to life. Then the car was being wrenched around in a 180 turn, roaring away towards Raccoon Street, and towards this supposed 'riot' that was gathering momentum. All around them, an empty chorus of moaning could be heard.

**A/N: ****Phew. That chapter seemed to be taking ages…though it was worth it in the end. But as you can probably gather from events depicted, the R.P.D's going to find itself stretched to the limit very shortly. **

**But in other news…I saw a few videos for Resident Evil: The Darkside Chronicles, and I have to say it's looking pretty sweet. It's similar to Umbrella Chronicles, but it's a lot slower-paced and atmospheric: I have to admit in one of the videos, which shows the first encounter with the Licker, I jumped about 10 feet in the air. Go me? **

**But anyhoo, R+R as usual please. If you don't I'll send a unit of T-103's round to your house. Next chapter…the infamous barricade massacre, and other events.**


	5. War Zone

Chapter 5: War Zone

**September 26****th****, 1416 hours**

BRRIIINNNGGG!!!

The sound of a cell phone going off shattered the relative silence of the small bedroom, causing its lone occupant to toss and turn within his bedclothes for several seconds, before finally sitting up straight, stretching his arms above him, and then rubbing his face tiredly. He was a short, blonde-haired man, his pale skin looking almost unhealthy in the limited morning light.

BRRIIINNNGGG!!!

He swung his legs over to the side of the bed, feeling his bare foot touch down upon the carpet. He sighed heavily again, before standing up and walking over towards a nearby chair, removing a plain white shirt that had been left lying over it, and pulling it on over his scrawny torso. He winced slightly as he brushed a few painful-looking bruises on his lower body, fairly recent dark blue patches against his normal, almost milk-white, skin tone. Bruises that were a result of his…somewhat unconventional lifestyle.

BRRIIINNNGGG!!!

He scowled in annoyance as he turned away from the chair, heading towards the bedroom door, out into the upper hallway, where his cell phone rested on a small wooden table, atop of several random magazines that he had gathered up during a tidy up the day beforehand. He picked up his cell and looked down at the screen. The message 'number withheld' was displayed against the backlighted screen. His face formed into a puzzled frown, wondering who the hell could have been calling him at a time like this: on his day off, of all days.

BRRIIINNNGGG!!!

Tutting in annoyance, he pressed the answer button and raised the phone to his ear. "Who the hell is this?" he asked, annoyed, still tried.

"Well good afternoon, Mr Greene," said a smoothly-delivered voice on the other end of the line. "I do hope this isn't an inconvenient time for you to speak?"

Tobias Greene was nearly knocked off of his feet by the sudden statement from the other end of the phone-line. He definitely wasn't sleepy anymore.

Tobias Greene had grown up in Raccoon County, residing for most of his life in the small town of Maple, 35 miles outside of the capital of Raccoon City. His life had been an unremarkable life: both his parents had worked as business clerks, working long hours and weeks to provide for him and make sure he was able to go onto college and university, to give him a better chance at life. Though rather than following in his parent's footsteps, he had gone on to sign up for the military, becoming a member of the Raccoon County Garrison, in which he currently served in the 1st Company as a corporal.

"Who the hell is this?" he asked, still reeling. "How did you get this number?!"

"I won't bore you with the details," replied the mystery caller, "so let's get straight down to business shall we? My name is Daniel Lindeman, and I need your help with some important matters."

Tobias stood in silence for a few seconds, thinking. He couldn't think of anyone wof that name he knew. "Listen buddy, I'm going to hang up the phone in three seconds time-"

"Oh come now, there's no need for behaviour like that," laughed the voice. "I just have a simple request of you, that's all. And if you comply, then I will make it worth your while, I assure you."

"To be fair, you've called me on my day off," replied Greene, growling out each word. "So I am going to just hang up now, and hopefully you will have learned your lesson the next time you try-"

"Oh dear, you've not been listening, have you Corporal?" asked the mystery voice with a slight laugh. This man clearly wasn't backing down. "All I'm asking is a simple request."

Green sighed in frustration and rubbed his face. "Fine, what do you want?" he said, wanting to entertain this man, for a while at least.

"There's an incident occurring in Raccoon City as we speak," replied the smooth voice. "And I believe that your unit, and the rest of Raccoon County Garrison, will be called in to deal with it. Now you should be receiving some items through your morning mail shortly, items that will help you out with regards to your duties. Now since I'll be taking this call as an acceptance of my offer, I will call you later on to advise you of the rest. Its took risky to reveal all in a single call."

Greene stood in silence for several seconds. He couldn't believe the arrogance of this man, though his mention about an 'incident' in Raccoon City still intrigued him somewhat. What kind of 'incident' was he referring to? Or was he just talking out of his ass?

"Listen, I'm going to hang up now, and if you ever call me again I swear to god you'll regret it," replied Green harshly, and with that, he ended the call, staring down at his phone for a long while, breathing in silence. The whole incident had unnerved him to say the least. How the hell did this guy know his name and his cell phone number? All he could think was that this was someone from his unit playing a practical joke on him…or someone less savoury.

He quickly shook it off, dropping his cell phone on to the side table again, and descending his stairs, down into his spacious front hallway, the mid-afternoon sun coming through the glass set into the front double doors. On the carpet was the small pile of his morning mail. And on top of it all, he saw the plain-looking brown package, about the size of a thick book, on top of the other letters. Curiously, he stooped down and picked up the package, turning it over in his hands. It was fairly light, and when he pressed it to his ear, it made no sound. He turned the package over again, and he saw his name and address written on, in deep black marker. He started to replay the conversation from before over in his head.

'_Now you should be receiving some items through your morning mail shortly, items that will help you out with regards to your duties-'_

He looked down at the package nervously, a queasy feeling forming in the pit of his stomach. And then just as quickly as it had formed, it was gone, as he tossed the package away from him, onto the floor.

_Stop fretting Tobias, it's probably some sick joke__ by one of your bored colleagues. It was probably Flack, he's always up to shit like this. Damned asshole needs a hobby… _

He moved away into the kitchen, picking up a TV remote on the counter before him, aiming it towards the small TV set atop of his fridge. As it was warming up, he pulled open the fridge door and retrieved a half-empty bottle of milk, tossing his head back and gulping half of it down in a few seconds time. He was just wiping a few stray drops from his chin and taking another gulp when the local news station started to report its main story.

"…and in current news, there is still no official word of the disaster engulfing Raccoon City."

Tobias Greene nearly choked on the rest of his milk when he heard the statement being read out, and he stared up at the small screen, which showed the image of a rest station outside of the city. A barricade manned by military personnel could be seen blocking the road; while a steady procession of traffic could be seen building up on each side of the barbed wire-topped fencing. A crowd of angry, shouting people in civilian clothing surrounded the entire scene.

"Local military forces have moved in and barricaded all main roads into the city, as well as a number of minor routes, barring access for anyone to come and go," continued the newsreader, as the camera panned out over the scene, showing trucks filled with entire squads of soldiers moving in, as Blackhawk and Littlebird choppers soared overhead. "As of yet, no official reason has been given for the actions, though current reports state that a possible radioactive waste spillage is to blame."

_Holy shit…_

The scene changed again, to show an army captain being accosted by several reporters. Greene recognised him as Captain Petrucci, commander of the 12th Company, from the northern county. Tobias had played poker with Petrucci on more than one occasion, so he knew him well.

"I have comment as of yet!" yelled the dark-haired Captain, looking somewhat flustered. "Please, just let us do our job and we can deal with this situation in due course!"

When he heard his cell phone going off from upstairs, he burst into action, sprinting out into the hall, and back upstairs to grab for his cell phone. Luckily, the screen showed a familiar number this time.

"Hello?" he said breathlessly, answering the call.

"Tobias?" barked the familiar voice of his commanding officer, Lieutenant Fletcher, on the other side.

"I saw it on the news," said Tobias quickly, pre-empting his superior's next question. "I'm on my way down now."

"That's good," replied Fletcher. "Get your kit together as soon as you get here: we're moving out first thing."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Raccoon General Hospital was being flooded, as waves of wounded and dying people were carried into the hospital's emergency room, while the poor staff fought to try and help anyone they could, but they were running dangerously low on resources, even though a supply truck had been making several trips to and fro from a nearby medical storage unit. And barely 15 feet away from the main doors, a protracted and bloody battle was being fought, as half a dozen figures from the R.P.D opened fire on the crowd approaching from down the street. The air was thick with gunpowder smoke and the stench of decay.

"Oh Christ!" screamed Jimmy, over and over again as he opened fire.

"Keep it together for god's sake!" yelled Hawkes, as he unloaded yet another M4 magazine at the crowd, riddling at least three people with multiple bullet impacts.

"They just keep coming!" cried Harry, unloading his shotgun into the belly of a short man wearing a green vest. The figure was lifted into the air by the blast, slamming backwards into the ones behind, knocking them all to the ground.

In the last 20 minutes, they had been firing into the wall of bodies advancing towards them, every one of them bearing blank faces and smeared in blood: to Albert, they reminded him very much of the late doctor Purvis, when he went insane and ripped out the throat of one of the nurses, growling like an insane beast. Looking over the front line, he could see that every one of them had a pair of milky white eyes. It was somewhat disturbing to say the least, as was the fact that most of them seemed to take at least 6 rounds to the torso before going down. They had killed at least two dozen of them, yet even more seemed to line up to take their places, all of them dressed in a variety of ways, an equal mix of men and women among them. He hated to admit it, but it looked as though they had been gunning down the citizens of the city.

"What's happened to them?" yelled one of the S.W.A.T officers, reloading his SMG.

"We can worry about that later!" growled Hawkes, opening up once again. He fired at a young blonde girl missing one of her arms, the powerful rounds shredding through her torso and out of her back, but she marched on, despite the smoking craters blown through her. He quickly altered his aim and fired a few more times, raking across the chest of a hefty woman in a tight red shirt. She shuddered from the impacts before keeling over forward to the bloody tarmac, her cohorts stepping over her. Then the sergeant took aim towards a burly-looking man wearing a yellow hard hat and missing his lips, and fired a single shot. The gun's recoil kicked his aim up, the bullet finding its way into the man's face. He fell backwards, his face mashed beyond recognition.

Albert saw this happen, and he had a sudden thought. Most of these people were taking a considerable amount of damage without even slowing down, but he noticed that a single well-placed headshot put them down instantly. Taking aim with his own weapon, he set his sights over the features of an elderly male with most of his face gradually disintegrating away, and fired. The man's upper jaw exploded in a shower of blood and tooth fragments, and then he collapsed to the ground, dead.

"Shoot them in the head!" he cried, switching his aim and firing once again, dropping a brown-haired teenage boy in a blood-smeared leather jacket. Seeing his new strategy, the others started to adopt it, aiming for instant-kill headshots over just random gunfire at the most immediate targets. The storm of gunfire became less sporadic now, as weapons were set onto single-shot mode, and the officers started to pick their shots more carefully and patiently now. Within the crowd, figures started to fall at a steady pace, piles of corpses starting to mount up in the open street.

Hawkes' powerful M4A1 popped heads like ripe watermelons, a rain of skull fragments, brain matter and blood splashing onto everything in range. Shell casings were starting to build up on the ground behind the barricade, smoke issuing from the superheated barrels of their weapons. But they stood their ground, a line of six lone men, as Raccoon General's doctors and other staff did their best to aid the flood of wounded coming in through their front doors. Most of them paid no attention to the battle taking place just several yards away from them. A couple of minutes later, the last insane civilian fell to the ground, a perfect bullet wound to the head. And with that, the incessant, haunting moaning had finally ceased.

There was a collective sigh of relief from the gathered officers, before a couple of them started to cough as the overpowering stench of cordite entered their nostrils and mouths, nearly choking them. Albert leaned his head back and stretched his arms over his head, letting the tension that was previously wracking his muscles just fade away. From next to him, Harry started to laugh in relief.

"Nice work," said Sergeant Hawkes, pulling his balaclava down and taking his helmet off as well, exposing his neatly trimmed brown hair. Sweat droplets were marking his brow, and he wiped the back of one of his hands across it. "I need to let the captain know about this, just sit tight," he then said, turning and marching back towards the squad car he and his fellow S.W.A.T officers had originally arrived in. As he moved away, Albert and the others looked out across the view of the street before them. Countless bodies lay in several heaps, some of them barely 15 feet away from the parked car.

"Jesus," muttered one of the S.W.A.T guys, shaking his head as he looked across the massacre.

"What the hell's happening?" asked Jimmy, still shaking where he stood. "What happened to all those people?"

"My guess?" chipped in the other S.W.A.T officer. "It's that cannibal cult's fault…all those murders weren't enough, so they've started mass conversion on a city-wide scale."

"So how do you explain how they can take so much damage before going down?" asked Albert sceptically.

"They're hooked up on angel dust, of course," replied the S.W.A.T guy, rooting through the ammo box to refill his supplies once again. "Seems pretty accurate to me."

"PCP users normally can't take up to a dozen shots to the chest," retorted Harry, reloading his Beretta handgun. "This is more like a Biohazard movie."

"Biohazard?" scoffed the S.W.A.T officer in response. "This isn't some movie you know! There's no such thing as zombies or whatever they're called in those movies."

"No, it's not a movie," said Albert suddenly, shutting them both up. "This has been a crazy day, granted, but whatever's going on, we're stuck in the middle of it all, so stop debating and keep your guard up!" His snappy response shut the both of them up, and they quickly turned away from the veteran officer.

Back at his squad car, Sergeant Hawkes struggled to hear his captain over the immense background noise of shouting and screaming. "What do you mean 'other incidents'?"

"There are huge riots massing in the Cider District and on Raccoon Street," answered Temple firmly. "There simply isn't enough manpower to spare to keep control of every single incident throughout the city, so we've got no choice but to deal with the more severe cases before they get out of control…and besides, Chief Irons gave the order personally."

"Good to see that fat waste of space doing some good for once," muttered Hawkes bitterly.

"That's enough, sergeant," warned Temple. "Either way, I can't spare any more aid. You're on your own."

Hawkes sighed in frustration before speaking up again. "Affirmative sir." And with that, the radio link was cut. Hanging the radio back on its hook, he turned back towards his fellow officers at the barricade.

"We're on our own boys," he announced. "Everyone else is tied up at other incidents throughout the city…and apparently there are two huge riots massing on Raccoon Street and in the Cider District." Albert felt a stab of dread spear into his gut.

_Riots?! What the hell?_

"Oh perfect," muttered Harry, shaking his head. "So what are we meant to do if even more of those damned things turn up?"

"Then we just stand our ground," said Albert firmly, despite the heavy weight that was forming in his gut right about then. "We're not going to just abandon our duty. All those people in the hospital are counting on us, after all." The others just looked at him silently for several long seconds, and then they seemed to smile, as if emboldened by his words.

"Heads up chief!" yelled one of the S.W.A.T officers suddenly, and everyone turned, following his pointing finger down the street. At the point where the street turned onto Chumleigh Drive, yet another crowd was massing: and this one seemed at least twice as large as the previous crowd who had just attacked. The combined sound of their empty moaning seemed to reverberate all around them, and Albert was wide-eyed as he tried to make a quick head count of how many there were. He quickly lost count after reaching 24.

"Shit!" cursed Hawkes, pulling on his helmet but leaving his balaclava to hang around his neck, taking up his M4A1 rifle, ready for action. "Time to earn that overtime, boys!" he then yelled, looking over at his fellow officers.

"It'd better be damned worth it," said Harry, taking up his shotgun and cocking it for good measure. And then about halfway down the street, one of the apartment building front doors suddenly crashed open and several bloody figures staggered out, heading straight for them. Several seconds later, the windows on the first floor exploded outwards, a lone figure sliding out of each one onto the ground, struggling to their feet and bolstering the size of the initial group.

"Oh goddamn it!" shrieked Jimmy, sounding as though he were close to losing it. His Beretta handgun shook freely in his hands.

"Keep it together!" screamed Albert, loud as he could manage. "We'll stand and deny them here! Don't let them through!"

"Wise words, Albert," noted Hawkes with a nod, before he propped his M4A1 on the top of the police cruiser, aiming down the middle of the road, at the very centre of the group that had emerged from out of the apartment building. Then he took a hold of the trigger on the under slung grenade launcher, which he had yet to use in this skirmish.

"Fire in the hole!" he warned, before pulling the trigger. There was a dull 'thump' as the grenade exited, before it whistled down the street at high speed and impacted into the chest of a man with his intestines hanging out.

BOOM!

There was an almighty explosion, which swallowed up at the entire group and sent their mutilated body parts soaring into the sky. The police quickly turned away, covering themselves as blood and diced organs landed all over them.

"Aw, shit!" yelled Harry, as he wiped a load of blood from his face.

"Heads up!" yelled one of the S.W.A.T officers shortly afterwards, aiming down the street. Through the still-settling smoke from Hawkes' grenade blast came even more insane citizens, their echoing moans coming down the street towards them, washing over them. And on the ground they could see several more from the initial group dragging themselves forward on their dirty and broken fingernails, even with their legs and lower bodies blown or ripped away by Hawkes' grenade blast.

"Hope you got more grenades for that thing!" growled Albert, checking the current status of his current magazine, before slamming it back home. "This is going to be a very long day!"

"So I gathered," replied the S.W.A.T sergeant calmly, opening his empty launcher and loading a fresh grenade shell with a dark green warhead into the tube, clicking it shut again after a few seconds, resting his rifle across the car's roof. "Open fire!" he then cried, and his two companions opened up with their own weapons. A few bodies shuddered and feel to the tarmac, twitching involuntarily, even as Hawkes fired off a second grenade with a dull 'thump'. This round collided head on with a tall dark-skinned man in a hooded sweatshirt, covering him and at least 3 others in deadly sulphuric acid, burning through their skin and flesh in an instant. Their bodies tumbled to the ground, the flesh around their upper torsos scolded away to reveal their bleached bones. But even more stepped over the fallen, too many to count.

"Here," said Hawkes suddenly, passing Albert a sawn-off Remington M1100 shotgun to Albert, which had previously been slung over the S.W.A.T sergeant's back. "It works better for close encounters."

"Thanks," nodded Albert, loading the weapon, barely heard over the gunfire that had now started up again from the barricade. He looked back over the others gathered within him, noting the looks of sheer terror on Jimmy's and Harry's faces, as they unloaded their weapons towards the encroaching crowd. He was inclined to feel the same way, but he didn't show that freely.

Sighing, he moved up, Beretta drawn, and fired, putting a bullet through the forehead of a young woman whose body was gradually wasting away.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Lenny and Jeff's police cruiser pulled up on Raccoon Street, on the far right hand of the street, alongside several other police vehicles that formed a rough barricade across the entire street width, including a couple of S.W.A.T vans, as countless officers dashed to and fro, trying to desperately ready themselves for whatever was due to come, though the haunting moaning that could be heard from somewhere nearby gave a pretty good impression of what was in the very near future.

"Damn," muttered Jeff as he exited from the car. "Looks like half the force is here!"

"Well maybe we are screwed," noted Lenny sardonically, as he looked out over the rest of the people gathered there, several of which he recognised: Marvin, Elliot, Jean, Meyer, several other beat officers he recognised by face, and S.W.A.T captain Temple, who stood at the very front of the barricade. He glanced back towards Lenny, and he nodded in recognition, before quickly turning back to face down the street. Another officer suddenly appeared beside the two new arrivals, his face showing a fearful expression. Lenny suddenly realised it was Sergeant Neil Carlsen, and he looked dead on his feet from fatigue.

"Thank god you got here," he panted, looking back and forth between the two partners. "Irons wants all hands on deck, and everyone else is tied up elsewhere in the city…so it's just us now."

"Against what?" asked Jeff, stepping aside as another officer barged past.

"Against that!" yelled Neil, pointing down the street. They followed his gesture, and even from here they could see the large crowd gathering, some 80 feet away from them. Nearly all of them were regular civilians, and even from here Lenny could tell they were covered in something a deep red. And he could hear the combined echoing of their empty moaning as well. Whatever madness that had struck the stadium had worked its way onto the streets now.

"Oh God…" he whispered.

"You can say that again," replied Neil, shaking his head. "This crap's happening all across town. They're saying it's that damned cannibal cult, some sort of conversion on a city-wide scale!"

"That's crazy!" yelled Jeff, as another police cruiser pulled up on the opposite side of the barricade, and Lenny watched as Ben Campbell and Dean Travers jumped out, taking up their own position at the barricade, before he turned his attention back to Neil.

"Well, anyone got a better explanation for this?" asked Neil, raising his arms either side of him to take in the general scene.

"Maybe," said Lenny, accepting Neil's offer. "It feels more like a disease…something that's sweeping through the entire town, driving them all insane."

"Well whatever it is, it's trying to kill us all," snapped Neil. "So buck up and get ready to kick some ass!"

"As you wish sarge," said Jeff tiredly, as Neil turned away from them and took up his own position near to the centre of the barricade. The two partners looked at one another, before they moved back towards their own car. Jeff propped himself up at the vehicle's trunk, while Lenny opened up the front side door and retrieved a Remington M870 shotgun from inside, along with a store of spare 12-gauge shells. He cocked the weapon to show he meant business, before leaning out over the car's hood. Far ahead, he could see the crowd more clearly now as they shambled closer, almost in unison. And then Lenny could pick out the finer details of the assembled crowd.

The members of the crowd came in all shapes and sizes, and there was an even spread of male and female among their ranks. Some of them were tall, some were short, some had blonde hair, some had brown hair. Some were teenagers, others were the elderly, and Lenny swore he even saw a few young children among the swaying bodies, though he prayed he hadn't. Most of the crowd were caked in blood and had horrific injuries, including broken or severed limbs. One element united all of them though: that terrifyingly blank look on their faces.

"Aw shit!" cried someone to Lenny's left, before the nauseating stench of blood and decay wafted into his nostrils: the exact same stench given off by Robert Smith and his cohorts back at the stadium. He held his breath as long as he dared, trying not let the ungodly aroma overpower him, but in the end he let his breath out, and the smell pervaded his sense, stinging at his eyes as well.

"Come on your fuckers, I'll kill every last one of you!" yelled Jeff suddenly, waving his gun threateningly towards the approaching crowd.

"Jeff, what the hell's gotten into you?!" asked Lenny, turning suddenly.

"What's the matter?!" yelled the redhead, teeth clenched in anger. "Killing them's the only way to shut the damned things up! I can't hear myself think for all of that incessant moaning!" Lenny was inclined to agree with Jeff on that part, but he still didn't like the idea of his partner going off the deep end.

"Keep it together, for God's sake!" yelled Lenny back. "Don't you dare fall apart on me now Jeff! Not now, of all times!"

They were both distracted by a piercing female scream, from somewhere ahead of them. They all turned and looked, in time to see a small handful of people, desperately trying to escape from the crowd of crazed 'rioters', but they were quickly overtaken and dragged down, bursts of bright red erupting from where the attacker's bare teeth tore into them. The lines of advancing bodies quickly swallowed the unfortunate citizens up, causing cries of disgust and anger from the line of assembled officers.

"Hold it together people!" bellowed Captain Temple from the very centre of the line. "Wait for my signal!" Jeff's ranting ceased as he looked back across at the S.W.A.T captain, and then back at the crowd, who were now gradually coming within firing distance. From this distance, he could clearly see the frightening looks on their pale faces, and the horrific injuries some of them carried. They almost filled the street from side to side, and they were several ranks deep behind the initial line of advancing bodies. Jeff wondered how many were here exactly.

"Come on man," said Lenny suddenly, taking his partner's attention away from the blood-stained crowd thankfully. "We gotta go kick some more ass together before the day is over, right?"

"Right," nodded Jeff, looking somewhat shaky as he took up a classic firing stance towards the front line of the crowd, and Lenny did the same with his own sidearm, leaving the shotgun close by for when the action got a bit too close for comfort. From nearby, the two men heard the combined sound of numerous firearms being readied.

"Hold!" cried Temple, fixing his sights over the face of the nearest 'rioter' to him, a young man wearing a blue and white Raccoon Sharks shirt, his intestines hanging out of an ugly wound in his lower stomach. Lenny took in a deep breath as he set his own sights over the broken face of a young blonde woman. She was probably attractive once, but now she looked more like a soulless monster. All across the line each officer picked their first target, holding onto their breath to steady their aim. Some guns were shaking in their owner's hands, their terror plain for everyone else to see. And then the order they were all waiting for was given.

"FIRE!"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

In the Cider District, trouble was brewing. At least three apartment blocks were on fire, transformed into great infernos that reached up towards the heavens, as a massive mob of people rampaged through the streets, attacking and maiming anyone they came across. Despite countless frenzied calls to the police and other emergency services, no-one had come as of yet. Apparently the devastation had spread to all the other areas of the city, but the people here were more concerned of the trouble engulfing their own homes. On French Street, a makeshift barricade made of practically anything the people could find had been hastily erected across the street length, in preparation for the crowd of insane people slowly approaching. Also in preparation, a group of locals had paid a visit to the local gunshop, 'The Hunting Shack', to stock up on weapons, but had run into some trouble, as a lone R.P.D officer would soon find out.

"What's going on here?" asked R.P.D officer Luke Briscoe, walking towards the small group of people gathered outside the gun shop. There was an equal mix of male and females there, and he noted a few of them were crouched around another person lying on the ground, on his back, tending to him. There was an uneasy feeling building up in his gut, and Lucas wished his partner Bobby was hear to help out, but he hadn't shown up for work that morning, after calling in sick, and there was no-one else there to act as a stand-in partner. Though with the countless calls coming in to the police, that was the least of his worries right now.

"He's gone crazy!" yelled a teenage boy wearing a black vest with '51' stitched onto the front.

"Who has?" asked Lucas, trying to ascertain what had happened exactly.

"The guy who owns the shop!" yelled the kid back, the grief in his voice noticeable. "He fucking shot him!" Lucas looked down at the fallen body on the ground, and he could see the huge circle of crimson that was forming around a bloody tear in his stomach. The man's eyes were closed, even as people whispered encouraging words in his ear.

"Look, just stay here, allright?" said Lucas, putting a hand on his holstered weapon and moving forwards, pushing through the crowd that had gathered. "Excuse me, R.P.D, let me through," he said, as the people moved out of the way.

"James is already in there trying to talk him down," said a male voice behind him, causing him to turn back. "I'm worried about him…"

"Don't worry, he'll be fine," urged Lucas, taking another look at the wounded man lying on the tarmac. The crimson on his white shirt was almost totally covering the lower half of his body now, and his skin was looking rather drained of colour. His state wasn't looking good, and the radio links were acting up as well.

Lucas slowly stepped inside the gun shop; all four of its walls covered in wooden racks holding nearly every type of weapon imaginable, from handguns and magnums through to shotguns, submachine guns and even assault rifles. In the middle of the shop floor stood a tall, well-built man in his early thirties, wearing a plain black shirt and denim jeans. He was currently pleading with another figure stood at the back of the shop, in front of the main shop counter.

"For God's sake Carl, if we're going to defend our homes then we need guns!" pleaded the man. In response, the other man raised the Ithaca M37 shotgun he held in his hands and unloaded a round into the ceiling plaster.

BOOM!

Lucas flinched suddenly, along with everyone else who had gathered outside the store, though the officer kept his weapon holstered, lest the sudden movement of him drawing it cause the armed man to open fire again towards him.

"Shut up!" screamed the shotgun-wielding store owner, a rather hefty-looking man with little hair on his head and a mid-length beard, and wearing a grey-white vest and dirty jeans. His face was set firmly, but Lucas could see fragility behind his dark eyes, as though he were ready to snap at the slightest provocation. The black-shirted man turned suddenly, and nearly jumped in surprise when he saw Lucas standing there.

"Where the hell have you been?!" he hissed under his breath. Lucas noted the man's rather sunken eyes and the paleness of his skin, even before he let out an abrupt burst of coughing.

"The whole city's going to hell in a hand basket, so sorry if our response time is a bit lower than usual," said Lucas sardonically, glancing back at the shop owner, who just stared back at them with a clenched jaw, shotgun trained on them both. "Are you James?"

"That's me," nodded the other man. "We were trying to load up on weapons to protect our homes from those…whatever the hell they are, and Carl's just lost it. He shot Barry in the gut for no reason!" He pointed back towards the wounded man outside to emphasise his point.

"Well it's allright," replied Lucas. "Just let me handle this."

"What, you called the cops on me now, James?!" screamed Carl, waving his weapon about threateningly and getting their undivided attention. "You gonna have me killed, eh? Are guns that important to you?! You're willing to kill me for them?"

"I can talk him down, trust me!" hissed James in response, suggesting that Lucas step back. "I've known this guy for 3 years, I know how he thinks!" Then he let off another burst of coughing.

"You allright?" asked Lucas quietly.

"I'll be fine, it's just a fever," replied James, turning back towards Carl and adopting a more assuring tone to his voice.

"Come on Carl, let's talk about this like civilized men!" he urged. "You didn't mean to shoot Barry, I understand that: just don't make it worse than it already is!"

"Talk?!" yelled Carl, swinging his Ithaca to cover James. "You can talk to my damned 12 gauge! Barry got shot because he was a thieving little shit!"

"Look, let me try and-" started Lucas, moving forward to offer his help, but James put his own arm out, blocking his advance. He fixed him with a steely glare, that seemed to say 'Just let me try.' Lucas stepped back, feeling somewhat deflated.

_I'm the damned cop, I should be the one handling this situation!_

James took a few steps towards Carl, who looked just about ready to kill someone, breathing heavily as sweat drops formed on his brow. Soon the black-shirted man was just standing around 6 feet away from the gun shop owner, his arms still raised to show he meant no harm. "Look Carl, it's like I said, I know you didn't mean to shoot Barry. But enough people have died today, and we need your help if we're going to stop more dying. Just give us-"

BOOM!

It all happened in the space of half a second, but to Lucas to it seemed to take much, much longer. There was a brilliant burst of light from Carl's shotgun, and then James went flying backwards, bright crimson liquid spraying from his ruptured torso. He flew back at least 10 feet, knocked off of his feet, landing on the tarmac outside the shop, hard. Blood sprayed up from his wound as his arms slapped down either side of him. He definitely wasn't alive anymore. The crowd started screaming again at the sight. The screams seemed to swim around Lucas as he stared down at James' body, his life blood quickly pooling underneath him. Some of it had even splashed across the officer's face.

"Goddamn it, I warned you!" growled Carl, cocking his shotgun one-handed, the spent shell spiralling away from him. "I told you once before: in a situation like this I can't afford to trust anybody!" Then he turned his aim towards the people standing outside. "Now get the hell away from my store!"

Lucas snapped back into protocol now, drawing his Beretta and aiming it towards Carl's torso. There was no luxury to mess about now. "R.P.D! Drop the damned weapon now!"

"You gonna make me, boy?" taunted the hefty man, levelling his shotgun once more. "No-one's taking my stock!"

"Put the gun down!" yelled Lucas back, over the screaming and shouting of the small crowd behind him. "Or I swear to God, I will shoot you dead!"

"Then shoot me, you jumped-up shit!" screamed the shop owner back. "I got nothing to lose now!"

"Put the gun down!"

"You'll have to shoot me, goddamn it!" screamed Carl, hefting his shotgun around to fire. Lucas squeezed the trigger on his Beretta quickly as his reflexes would allow.

BANG!

His single shot struck Carl in the shoulder, knocking the hefty man back in a puff of bloody mist. Carl, grunting in agony, tried to aim his shotgun one-handed as he reeled backwards, into his store counter.

BOOM!

His shotgun blast missed mostly, but the edge of the buckshot tore through the left side of Lucas' neck, and the young officer fell to the ground, streaming blood in his wake. More screams were heard, before the crowd acted as one, surging into the store on mass, passing over Lucas as he lay there clutching at his neck, trying to beg for help, but only a bloody gurgle came out. Carl tried to cock his weapon for another shot, but at least 3 people barged into him, punching him to the ground and screaming at him.

"You killed them, you bastard!"

"Die you selfish fucker!"

"You're a damned lunatic Carl!"

Others went to work getting a hold of any gun they could, and the associated ammo, before exiting the store, carrying their own bodyweight in firepower. One man leapt over the front counter and helped himself to a pair of Remington shotguns, while his companion took hold of an MP5 SMG and a S&W revolver handgun, which was tucked into the front of his belt. A short distance away, a tubby man wearing an ill-fitting black shirt jogged out of the store, clutching a box of ammunition in his meaty paws. His female companion came behind, several bullet belts thrown over her shoulders and back. It was pure anarchy, as everyone there fought to get a hold of as many guns and ammo as they could.

It lasted for at least two minutes, with the last person to leave being a teenage male with a pair of Sako S75 hunting rifles slung over his back. They left behind the body of R.P.D officer Lucas Briscoe, who had bled to death while the people of the Cider District looted the shop, and the bodies of James Hodges and Barry Fennel, two of the area's more popular figures, their bodies punctured open by shotgun fire. And they also left behind Carl, leaning heavily on his store counter, bruised and bleeding from a cut above his head. He stared at the open doors hatefully: they had even taken his beloved Ithaca shotgun from him.

"You bastards!" he screamed, though no-one could hear him. "Are they that important to you? Do you want guns so much you're willing to walk all over me just to get your hands on them?!" He tried to push himself off of his counter, but pain flared up in his sides, were the crowd had kicked at him repeatedly. He stared to move towards the open doors, keeping himself supported on nearby walls, wincing at every movement he made. He passed over the body of the police officer who had shot him, looking down at him. The poor guy looked young, barely old enough to be out of high school. And now he was dead, thanks to him: just for trying to defend his business.

He stumbled on until he was by the door, staring down at James' body, and beyond that the body of Barry, who had bled to death by now as well. His fellow neighbours had just left him behind to die in their haste to loot his store. Averting his gaze, Carl moved forward again, before he finally let go of the nearby wall and started to limp out onto the open street, making a break for it: until something strong grabbed onto his ankle, and he fell sideways onto the pavement, hearing the clear 'snap' of one of his ribs breaking.

He screamed in agony and turned over, to see what the hell had grabbed onto him.

It was James. Or rather, what used to be him: his eye sockets were totally devoid of any human emotion or life now, and a weak moan escaped from his dry lips. Despite the horrific wound inflicted on his torso, he still managed to drag himself up, pulling himself onto Carl's fallen body. Carl realised that James hadn't been feeling 100% lately, and now he seemed to have transformed into one of those freaks.

"No! No! Get off me!" screamed the store owner, thrashing about wildly, but he was finding himself overpowered, despite the fact he was at least twice the size of James. Blood dripped from his open wound onto Carl's body and face as he hovered, ready to strike. Carl bought his hands up in an effort to shield himself, as James lunged down, teeth bared.

Carl let off an impossibly loud screech of pain; right up until James Hodges ripped his jugular vein out.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_This isn't happening-_

Lenny levelled his shotgun towards a middle-aged woman wearing a blue blouse, and sent her flying backwards with a direct shot, her torso ripped open fully. She slammed back into the people behind her, knocking several of them down in a single move.

_This is just a bad dream: I'm gonna wake up shortly-_

"There's too many!" screamed a hysterical voice to his left.

"Don't give up!" yelled a S.W.A.T officer in reply, unloading his MP5 with a single, prolonged burst of gunfire, emptying the weapon in a short period of time.

"Smoke 'em!" bellowed yet another voice, as his colleague fired an M79 grenade launcher into the throng of bodies.

_Please wake up__ Lenny, wake up-_

Lenny reached for his supply of shotgun shells, sliding them into the weapon's tube magazine. A few of them dropped from his shaky grasp, and he quickly stooped to retrieve them, catching a glimpse of the countless pairs of legs just on the other side, advancing in an uneven manner. A few dozen corpses littered the ground, riddled with gunfire, but there were countless more ready to take their place just beyond.

"Eat it! Eat it! Eat it gutbags!" roared Jeff Danson, unloading his current Beretta magazine in seconds. At least two bodies fell from his most recent salvo.

They were well out of their depth here. Even though Lenny had already killed a handful of these things in the past few hours, right now it seemed as though half the city was bearing down on the barricade, as a battery of over 30 guns pounded into them. But it was pure anarchy: most of these people were taking entire clips to go down, some of them only stopping when they had literally been torn limb from limb. A S.W.A.T officer armed with an M79 grenade launcher wasn't even gaining much ground, as even bodies with their legs and lower bodies blown off continued to crawl towards them. A mountain of shell casings was starting to build up, and the fear was blatant on the faces of those gathered. Some of them were starting to back up as the crowd came within 20 feet of the barricade. Lenny had already seen at least one uniformed officer make a desperate run for it, minutes beforehand.

"Due you motherfuckers!" screamed Ben Campbell from the opposite side of the barricade, dropping a few people with precise headshots.

"AIM FOR THEIR FUCKING HEADS!" screamed Ben's partner Dean, as he unloaded the latest magazine from the M4 rifle he had been using. His salvo popped several skulls into the bargain, blood and brain matter streaking the tarmac.

_Finally, someone else gets the hint, _thought Lenny to himself bitterly.

"You heard the man, headshots!" bellowed S.W.A.T captain Temple, as he and several others surrounding him started to aim for the head, with noticeable results. More and more bodies started to fall to the gore-slicked tarmac, piling up in some areas, but their cohorts continued to advance, stepping and tripping over the bodies in their mindless desire to reach the officers at the barricade.

"I think its working!" screamed Meyer in delight as the crowd seemed to thin out, but then his delighted expression was crushed when he looked further down the street. "Oh no…"

A smaller crowd of crowd had emerged from one of the side streets ahead, and even more were spilling out from the open doors of apartment buildings, the entire horde coming together like drops of rain gathering into a huge puddle. And the beings forming this puddle wanted to rip the R.P.D officers limb from limb.

"Aw shit, more of those damned…zombies!" screamed Neil suddenly, a slight hesitation before that last word.

_Zombies? _Thought Lenny to himself. _That's crazy! Zombies don't exist-_

Then he looked back across at the moaning mass, noting their pure white eyeballs and the shambling manner in which they advanced.

…_then again, he may be right. These people are way too similar to those things from the 'Biohazard' series…and Robert Smith: he looked dead on his feet as well. It seems crazy to think about it, but 'zombies' seems like a fitting word to describe them. _

"Stand your damned ground people!" cried Captain Temple, reloading his M4A1 for what seemed like the umpteenth time today. "We've got a duty to protect and serve, remember?" Lenny sighed in annoyance as he reached for more spare shells for his Remington, casting a look over to his partner, who looked as though he were about ready to break down.

"Jesus! Does it ever end?!" he asked aloud, checking the state of his current magazine.

_For all our sakes, I hope so buddy, _thought Lenny to himself grimly.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"You're lucky to have made it this far," said the voice standing over him.

Ryan looked around at the canteen, which seemed relatively untouched by the madness engulfing the school: the tables were in their usual places, while the steel shutter by the serving counter was still in place, as were the countless chairs and trash cans arranged around the table. Through the huge windows on the wall directly opposite, he could see the face of the brick building directly outside, many of its windows and doors smashed in, but he saw no sign of any zombies anywhere.

"You can say that again," he said finally, looking up at the figure standing over him. It was a tall male wearing a green long-sleeved shirt and jogging pants of the same colour, his dark black hair mattered with sweat. A few drops of blood marked his front as well. He blinked in surprise with his dark green eyes when he took better notice of Ryan's features.

"Oh shit, Ryan?" he asked, almost laughing in relief. "I thought you were dead!"

"Not me," replied Ryan, as his saviour offered him his hand and pulled him up. "It's good to see you too Miles."

Miles Kennedy was one of the more dependable students on campus: though he was often seen as a wallflower, willing to blend into the background, he knew a lot of people and could always be depended on in a tight fix. And Ryan guessed today's incident could be considered a pretty-tight fix.

"It's good to see another human, trust me," said Miles in response, forcing a slight smile.

BANG!

The door shuddered in place suddenly, and both jumped back in surprise, seeing a pallid and wasted face press itself up against the glass porthole.

"Damn!" yelled Miles, grabbing onto a nearby chair and propping it up in front of the door. "Help me block this off!"

"Right!" said Ryan in response, dropping his baseball bat and reaching for a fold-up table, picking it up and wedging it against the door, while Miles did the same with another table, and then for good measure, he pushed the handle of a broom through the door handles, keeping them as secured as possible. The two of them slowly backed away from the door as they rattled in place, but held firm, even as the moaning outside started to grow in volume.

"That should hold them off…I hope," breathed Miles in relief. And then adding, "where's everyone else?"

"I don't know," sighed Ryan, shaking his head sadly. "I saw no-one else on my way here- I hope they all got away."

"Me too," nodded Miles.

"Miles? What's going on?" asked another voice from somewhere behind Ryan. He turned quickly to see another figure step into view from where the actual kitchen was located. It was a male, around Ryan's height, with sandy-blonde hair and wearing a finely-made green linen shirt and pants of the same colour, along with smart brown shoes. His face was marked with sweat and dirt, and his green eyes looked red and sore: he'd been crying sometime recently, Ryan guessed.

"Patrick, it was Ryan," explained Miles. "Someone else is still alive at least."

Patrick Denver was a kid from the North end of town, or the rich area. In other words, he and his parents had a lot of money, as both of them had invested in stocks with Umbrella Inc, and that was always a smart move when money was the issue. Although his parents had the money too, they insisted he attend Raccoon University instead to remain close to home.

"Only Ryan?" asked Patrick, incredulous. "For fuck's sake…" he then added, turning away.

And Patrick was something of a snob as well, thinking he was better than everyone else in the campus. He didn't have many friends as a result, and preferred to keep to himself. Needless to say, people skills weren't Patrick's forte.

"Nice to see you too," muttered Ryan sarcastically, before turning back towards Miles. "Isn't there anyone else left?"

"Well, there's a few people from Professor Langdon's class who made it-" started Miles.

"And that's it!" screamed Patrick suddenly, storming back into the canteen area, getting right up in Ryan's face. "The rest of them are dead! They're all dead! Do you understand what the word 'dead' means do you? You goddamned-"

"That's enough!" snapped Miles, shoving Patrick back and placing himself between the two surviving students. "It's understandable you're stressed out-"

"Stressed?!" yelled Patrick, his voice rising an octave or two. "Oh believe me Miles, this is _way_ beyond stressed: I'm fucking suicidal here!"

"-but don't take it out on the rest of us!" finished Miles, once Patrick's rant had finished. "Things are bad enough as it is, but you're not helping!"

Patrick stared at Miles, his eyes bulging out of his skull, before he buried his head in his hands for a few seconds, breathing deeply, and then he finally lifted his face up, twisting his mouth up into a smile laughing. He continued to laugh for several seconds, turning and moving away from Ryan and Miles, who both regarded their fellow student with careful glances. Then eventually, Patrick ceased laughing, walking right up to Miles, getting right in his voice.

"You know what? Fuck you," he whispered, and then he turned and walked away, up towards the main windows. As he did, he kicked out at one of the chairs, sending it crashing into several more, causing a considerable racket in the process. He then stood in front of the windows, holding his hands across the back of his head.

"Me and Patrick were the only ones from our class to get out," explained Miles. "Everyone else got…eaten."

"Shit," cursed Ryan. Needless to say, it looked as though experience had driven Patrick to despair, as evidenced just now. He just hoped that it wouldn't jeopardise the group's future plans.

"He's just lost it," noted Miles quietly. "We were making our way here with some other people, and Patrick locked a door in their faces. Those things were right behind them, and-"

"Holy fuck!" said Ryan, already imagining what happened next.

"He said it was to stop them getting to us, but if he had waited just another second longer they would have all been through with us," continued Miles, shaking his head. "He just didn't care! Patrick's always been a jerk, but this is the worst I've ever seen him."

_Yeah, a zombie apocalypse will do that to you, _thought Ryan, looking back at Patrick, who continued to stand at the window, back towards him. He just hoped that Patrick wouldn't go too far in his desperate need to get away from all of this.

"Miles?" said an unseen female voice, and they both turned as a small figure appeared in the kitchen doorway. "What's going on?" Ryan turned to regard the new arrival, and his eyes went wide as he took in their appearance. Short red hair, shining blue eyes, red shirt, blue jeans-

"Amy?!" he said, with considerable surprise.

"Ryan?" said Amy in response, suddenly moving forward, and the two of them caught each other up in a long-lasting hug, as Miles stood by, looking a little surprised. And then the two of them finally released.

"Ryan, thank God you're not dead!" Amy said finally, her pitch rising.

"I'd say the same about you," smiled Ryan. "Are you allright?"

"Y-yes, I'm fine," the red-head replied eventually. "After Professor Langdon was taken away…and those people attacked, me and Michelle ran for it, and we bought Harold along as well, but he's hurt. We're the only ones who made it this far I think…everyone else is-"

"Don't finish that sentence," said Ryan firmly, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder. "You made it, that's all that matters."

"Yeah," agreed Miles. "But those people…what the hell's wrong with them?!"

"They're zombies," replied Ryan, drawing surprised glances from all of them.

"Zombies?" laughed Patrick, suddenly standing at Miles' shoulder. "This isn't a damned Biohazard movie, you know!"

"Maybe not," said Ryan, fixing him with a glare. "But you got a better suggestion as to what's wrong with them?" The two of them stared at one another for several seconds, before Patrick finally backed down. Scowling, he turned and walked away, back towards the window.

"Zombies?" whispered Miles. "Come to think of it, they all looked dead…"

"Look people, we can stay here and discuss how all of this started until the cows come home," said Patrick suddenly, "but I for one, would like to get out of here as soon as possible! The back door to the canteen still works as far as I know! So, when are we moving?" That last question was directed at Miles, who was subjected to another of Patrick's eye-bulging stares.

"Well we're sitting tight for the moment," ordered Miles. "Ryan barely made it this far, so we're resting for the moment."

"What?!" yelled Patrick, as the locked doors continued to rattle in place. The moaning outside was starting to grow in intensity. "But those things are right outside! If we stay here too long-"

"I said, we're staying," growled Miles in a low voice, fixing Patrick with his own stare, eyes narrowed. Patrick opened and closed his mouth a few times to try and protest, but eventually his words died in his throat and he said nothing more. Meanwhile, Ryan followed Amy through into the kitchen, where he saw Harold Porter laid out on the tiled floor on top of a blood-stained blanket, his eyes closed and muttering something to himself. Michelle was crouched over him, holding some bandages to an area on the left hand side of his collar bone. Though her face was marked with dirt and tears, she was still alive and in one piece relatively. She looked up, and her face lit up when she saw Ryan standing there.

"Oh Ryan, thank god!" she said, smiling slightly.

"It's good to see you Michelle," he replied quietly, before turning his attention to Harold's wounded form. "What happened to him?"

"One of the guards went insane, tried to tear his throat out," explained Michelle, tying the bandages on around the wound. "He just won't stop bleeding!" Her voice started to break apart as she made that statement.

"They're coming…" whispered Harold, moving in and out of consciousness. "Run!...Get away from them!....Run away!"

"Don't move, " whispered Amy, stooping down and cradling his head. "Stay still Harold, we'll help you."

"No…Louise…no!" Harold whispered, referring to his girlfriend on campus. Michelle and Amy's faces went pale.

"They killed her," said Michelle flatly. "They ate her alive in front of us…those monsters."

"Jesus," muttered Ryan.

"Did you see anyone else?" asked Amy suddenly, still cradling Harold's head carefully. Ryan was silent for a moment as he remembered the incident with Eric in the dorm rooms. The poor guy had lost it after seeing the horrors invading the campus, and had threatened to shoot Ryan dead if he entered his room. And then he had gone one step too far, and blown his own brains out without a second thought. Ryan felt it was best not to worry the others with the details of that incident.

"No…there was no-one else," he answered, lying. "They're all dead or gone."

"No…" whispered Amy, a tear starting to form on her face. "Is this…happening across the whole city?"

"I think so," sighed Ryan, over Harold's constant whimpering. "The lines to call the emergency services are all choked full."

Amy felt a stab of unease enter her gut, before she cried out suddenly. "Mom! Dad!"

"Your parents?" asked Ryan. "They're still in the city?"

"Y-yes," she nodded. "I hope they're allright…"

"We should go and check just in case," suggested Ryan without skipping a beat, getting a few surprised glances from the other occupants of the room.

"What?!" asked Miles from behind him. "Screw that, we should get the hell out of here!"

"I agree with him," added Patrick, suddenly appearing once more.

"Hey, her parents only live about 4 blocks away from here," retorted Michelle. "If the streets are relatively clear-"

Patrick laughed in response, shaking his head.

"-then it won't take us too long to get there," the blonde continued. "If we go out the back door of the canteen, then take a left then the first right, it's a straight path down to Willow View Apartments-"

"Screw that!" screamed Patrick, sounding hysterical now. Amy flinched at the suddenness of his cry. "If we go north, it's a quicker route to the city outskirts, and when we make it that far, we're home free!"

"What about your parents?" asked Ryan. "Aren't you worried about them? If they're still alive or not?"

"They're fine, don't worry," said Patrick hastily.

"You sound so sure of yourself," said Amy bitterly. "But my parents are still somewhere in this city: I can feel it in my bones. I'm not going to just-"

"Then you can go by yourself!" screamed Patrick, getting right up into Amy's face, causing her to reel back in shock. Everyone else turned towards the scene in surprise, and even Harold seemed to stir in his sleep from the outburst. "Cause frankly, I for one am not sticking around this damned place-"

"Knock it off!" yelled Ryan, putting himself between Amy and Patrick, shoving the latter away as hard as he could manage, nearly shoving him off of his feet.

"Oh yeah?!" yelled Patrick with gritted teeth, getting right up in Ryan's face. "What you gonna do, you low-born shit?"

"Hey!" shouted Ryan back, shoving Patrick in the chest forcefully with both hands now, hard enough to knock his fellow student flat onto his back. Patrick landed hard, looking up at Ryan in shock at what had just happened. "Your goddamned trust fund is no use here, you damned snob!" yelled Ryan angrily, but he wasn't finished yet.

"You always were a prick Patrick, but if you just shut the hell up for a few minutes then I might think a little better of you. You want to cut and run, take your chances alone, be my guest. But I suggest you stick with us a little bit longer unless you want to be eaten alive by those damned zombies!"

Ryan continued to stare down at Patrick for several seconds, his fists clenched. The sheer agony from before, of watching Grant die in his arms, powerless for Ryan to do anything, had burned out of him with that rant, and he was glad it had stopped there: he wanted to smash Patrick's smug face into a bloody pulp. Patrick continued to lie prone on the floor, looking up at Ryan, his face fearful. There was a dread silence from everyone else present as well, aside from Harold's incoherent mutterings as he slept. Finally, after what seemed like an age, Patrick rose to his feet, before making his way over towards one of the tables at the far side of the canteen, carefully watching Ryan as he moved away. Finally, as he sat himself down, Miles turned to look at Ryan.

"Dude, you allright?"

"Y-yeah," nodded Ryan, breathing deeply turning away to face Amy. "You allright?" he asked her.

"Yes," she nodded. "Though for a second there I was rather scared…"

"Understandable," answered Ryan, glancing back towards where Patrick was sat, tapping his foot against the floor constantly. Miles was still stood in the foreground, watching Ryan as though he were on the verge of having a nervous breakdown and murdering them all. After that outburst, Ryan wouldn't be surprised if they all thought he was insane.

"Ryan, did something happen?" asked Amy, getting his attention again. "You're never this…forthright."

"Grant died," said Ryan flatly, not dancing around the issue. "He died in my arms. Mrs Cullen turned into a…zombie, and nearly tore his throat out. I couldn't do anything else for him."

"Oh I'm so sorry," said Amy in a hushed voice. "I know how much you and Grant were-"

"It's allright," Ryan said quickly. "It wasn't your fault. And God knows if Zac's still in one piece."

"Zac's alive?" asked Miles from his position in the doorway. "Where is he?"

"Right now, on his way to the police station, hopefully," answered Ryan. "But whether he can get there or not is another matter, considering the current circumstances."

"Sorry Ryan but we need to worry about ourselves," said Miles, pointing down at Harold. "Harold's hurt, so if we take him with us then he'll slow us down."

"But we can't just leave him here either!" protested Michelle. "Not after I spent so long trying to save his life in the first place."

"Then we can carry him," suggested Ryan.

"How?" asked Miles.

"Looks like we'll have to bite the bullet and do it manually," replied Ryan. "We're not leaving him behind either way. Patrick?"

"Yes?" asked the blonde-haired student, still standing out in the main canteen hall. His aggressive, somewhat manic demeanour had practically drained away since Ryan had shoved him onto his ass.

"You up to carrying Harold out of here?"

"Y-yeah, I suppose," Patrick replied sheepishly, trying to avoid direct eye contact.

"Good," said Ryan, looking at everyone else, who just continued to wear fearful expressions. "Look, it'll be allright people, as long as we keep it together and we stay as a group. Too many people have died already today; let's not add to that figure anymore."

"Yeah, you're right," said Miles. "I guess all that wasted time watching Biohazard movies helped out, eh?" he then said with a smile.

"Suppose," sighed Ryan, looking back towards where Michelle was crouched next to Harold. "Will he be allright?"

"Well, if we get him to the hospital, then maybe," she replied. "But otherwise, I can only do so much."

"Either way, we can't leave him here," replied Ryan. "We should get set to go soon as we can."

"Sounds good to me," sighed Patrick in relief.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"What's your name, son?" asked the police officer in a deep voice, a great bear of a man with arms like tree trunks and with a shock of dark brown hair. He was holding a Beretta handgun in his right fist.

Zac was only a few blocks away from the police station, but had been waylaid by wandering groups of those 'zombies', as he had now dubbed them, forcing him to take the long way around, which basically meant he was moving in a rough circle of the station itself, but getting no closer,. And then he had run straight into a trio of police officers manning a hastily-erected barricade on Fleet Street.

"Zac," he said, huffing for breath, "Zac Briars."

"Well Zac, I'm Officer Birch," replied the big man. "And why are you out on the streets, considering everything that's been happening?"

"I was…heading…for the…police station," panted Zac, in between gulps for breath.

"Well you've done well to get this far," nodded Birch, looking away down the street, "but those zombie freaks have practically every route blocked off, and we're pushed to hold them at bay. The whole city's gone downhill today."

"You think?!" asked Zac, in a prickly manner.

"Uh, we got more of those things coming this way!" yelled one of the other officers stood behind a wooden barricade, a blonde-haired man who looked about as old as Zac. He looked petrified as well: wide-eyed and sweat dripping down his forehead. He indicated towards some point in the distance, just outside a deli with its windows and door smashed in. A large crowd was starting to gather, at least dozen figures, and they were shambling towards the barricade, moaning in an eerie fashion. More figures were emerging from behind a wrecked and burning sedan as well.

"Shit!" cursed Officer Birch, glancing at Zac. "Look kid, we're gonna be busy very soon, so just get in the damned car and lock the doors, now!"

Zac didn't need to be told twice upon setting his eyes on the approaching crowd, as he made a bee-line for the nearest police cruiser, parked 10 feet behind the barricade itself. He pulled open the back door and started climbing in, before he had a sudden thought, and he turned back towards where Birch was stood, towering over his two smaller companions. All of them aimed their side arms down the road towards the approaching crowd, who were within 30 feet now.

"Shoot them in the head!"

"What?" yelled Birch back, turning his head away for a quick second, and then looking back towards the crowd.

"They're zombies, so shooting them in the head's the only way to-"

"Look kid, let the professionals handle this, allright?" shouted Birch back, sounding somewhat shaky despite the look on his face. "Just stay in the car."

"But-"

"Stay in the damned car!" repeated Birch, sounding much more firm this time, his face set. Left with little other choice, Zac piled back into the car, pulling the door shut, and then quickly flicking the door's locking switch into place. Then he pushed himself up against the window, staring out at the trio of police officers as they started to open fire. A few of the approaching figures shuddered and fell, but the others kept on advancing. One of the younger officers looked set to turn and run.

"Stand your ground!" yelled Officer Birch as he fired again and again, unloading his current magazine before reaching for a new one.

_Shoot them in the head, for God's sake…_ Zac thought to himself over and over. But the officers didn't heed that advice: they were going for limb shots, seemingly reluctant to kill these people outright: even though Zac knew they weren't human anymore. He couldn't stay here for too long, but the officer had ordered him to stay put: he had no idea what he should do next.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

On the east side of town, chaos was raging. Dozens of crazed people rampaged through the open streets, attacking anyone else they came across, tearing into them with their bare teeth. Gallons of blood pooled in the streets, forming macabre lakes, while crowds of people ran to and fro, fleeing in terror from their attackers. There was no sign of any police or other emergency services, as bodies started to pile up in the streets. Some families piled into their cars, speeding off towards the city limits, but others fled on foot, cradling their possessions in their arms.

The back door into the Willow View Apartments burst open, and a grey-haired man in a dark shirt and pants stumbled out, followed by a small group of fellow residents, all of them clutching onto bags of belongings. As they scattered in all directions, he continued to stare into the open doorway at the figures which shambled towards him from down the hallway. He recognised at least two of them: they were good neighbours of his, but now their skin was a deathly grey and their eyes were just empty white orbs. What the hell had happened to them? A sudden scream from somewhere inside forced him to slam the door shut, turning away from the closed door.

He ran out onto the open street as people passed him by on all sides, screaming hysterically. He looked around him, slowly turning in 360 degrees, taking in all of the details he could make out. Buildings had their windows and doors smashed in; cars had been overturned and abandoned (some of them were even ablaze), and he could see large columns of smoke rising from the downtown area. Screaming and shouting drowned out all his other senses. And bodies lined the ground as well; many of them face-down with pools of blood forming around them. He recognised the faces of the few people who lay face-up.

"Holy…"

Someone barged into him forcefully, throwing him onto his rear end, and he looked up as other people moved by, unheeding of him. Then he glanced down the road, in the direction of the city centre, and he saw the line of people advancing up the road. Even from this distance, he could see that most of them were covered from head to toe in blood. An eerie chorus of pained moaning could be heard emanating from their general direction.

"What the hell?" he whispered to himself. He scrambled backwards, before turning over, pushing himself to his feet and moving out of the road, as people continued to move past him. The crowd approaching from downtown was steadily swelling in size as he watched, practically filling the entire road from side to side. He started to back away slightly in shock, but then the back of his legs caught on something lying on the ground, and he went over sprawling over backwards again, nearing smacking the back of his head off of the tarmac.

He glanced down at the dead body he had just tripped over, of a middle-aged woman with brown curly hair and wearing a green sweater over a flower-print shirt. Her brown eyes were locked open in terror, and her neck had been torn open, blood pooling across the tarmac: the same pool he was currently sprawled in. It was Miss Watson, the kind lady who lived just down the hallway from him, the one who always seemed to be smiling at everything. But she was dead now, as her lifeless eyes continued to stare at some point in the distance. He took in a quick gulp of air and scrambled to his hands and knees, turning away from her.

He looked up and saw yet another figure staggering towards him, a tall man wearing a dark blue shirt and jeans. His head was lowered, and he let out a long empty moan as he took another step forwards. He stared up in shock as the man took another shaky step forwards, raising his arm and reaching out towards him. Something dripped onto the tarmac as he looked up, showing that his throat had bee torn out, the blood still pouring from the fresh wound.

He finally realised, with wide eyes, that it was Tommy, the building's resident handyman. There was nothing he couldn't fix, whether it be a bust shower pipe, a change of door lock, or some shelves putting up, he would always comply. But now he looked a mere shadow of his former self, his eyes empty and his normally cheery face blank as could be. His lips also seemed to be absent, literally ripped free from his face, exposing his broken and dirtied teeth. His mouth opened and closed in a yawning motion, as he made the same sound all those other people were making.

Tommy reached down towards him, blood dripping from his fingernails. He continued to stare up at him, frozen in shock.

BANG!

A bullet punched through the side of Tommy's skull and erupted from the other side, a considerable amount of blood bursting from the wound, some of which landed on his face. Tommy was thrown off of his feet, and hit the ground hard, his bones crunching from the impact. He looked down at the fallen body for a few seconds, and then glanced away when he heard the sound of boots on tarmac from next to him. Another figure towered over him, and he looked up at them with awe and surprise.

It was a tall man, at least 6 feet tall, dressed from head to toe in green camouflaged fatigues, complete with heavy black boots, and a Kevlar helmet that covered most of his head, complete with a small heads-up display over his right eye. His face was set hard, and he glared straight ahead, towards the approaching crowd in the near distance. He was clutching an M4 assault rifle, complete with an underslung M203 grenade launcher, in his meaty hands. He raised one of his arms and pointed towards the crowd, yelling a single command.

"Go!"

And then he raised his weapon and opened fire, sending streams of red-hot gunfire down into the crowd. And then there was more movement, and suddenly at least a dozen more men dressed in similar-coloured camouflage gear appeared from all around, dashing up to form a firing line across the street, down on one knee, firing into the crowd. The air became rife with gunpowder smoke and the constant chattering of their rifles firing in unison.

_The army…it's the goddamned army!_

Blood-stained figures shuddered and fell, but the others continued to march on, despite the hideous wounds inflicted upon them. Some of them continued to drag themselves along the ground, pulling their now-useless legs behind them. He even saw a few skulls pop, dropping them to the tarmac like sacks of potatoes. But the relentless fire storm was having an effect, and the crowd seemed to be thinning out.

"Go now! Get them out of here!" yelled one of the soldiers, and he turned his head to see a pair of green-coloured humvees, complete with top-mounted .50 machine guns pull up, along with a supply truck, which promptly disgorged another dozen soldiers, who fanned out, going to any people still alive and herding them away from the action. People screamed and protested, but were still ushered away.

"Sir, are you allright?" asked a commanding voice, and he looked up suddenly to see the first soldier he had seen before standing over him, his weapon lowered. "If you come with us, we can get you out of here alive."

"W-what's happening?" he said finally, his mouth forming words. "What's wrong with those people?" he then asked, indicating towards the large crowd approaching from downtown, most of them just a mound of bloody corpses now.

"There's no time for that, just come with us!" ordered the soldier, taking a hold of his arm and helping him to his feet. "What's your name?"

"A-Albert," he said after a brief pause. "Albert Jefferson."

A sudden booming sound drowned everything out, as the mounted guns on the humvees opened up. Tracer fire screamed into the open doorway of a nearby apartment building, cutting apart most of the crowd that was gathering in the small entry point, the high-calibre rounds chipping apart the concrete the building was fashioned from. A few of the foot soldiers turned in the same direction, and they opened up on the figures emerging from around the sides of the building, too many to count on one set of hands.

"Well Albert, if you come with us, we can get you out of here," yelled the soldier, moving Albert towards the parked truck.

"But my family's back there!" Albert yelled back in response, trying to struggle free.

"We can go back for them later! Just get going!" the soldier retorted, raising his voice.

"Sarge! They're massing again!" yelled another voice. Albert turned his head to see one of the other soldiers pointing down the road, towards a massive seething crowd that was starting to form just behind the initial group. The haunting chorus of their moaning could be heard even from here.

"Dammit!" yelled the sergeant, turning towards another soldier who was stood nearby doing nothing. "Get him out of here, now!"

"I said my family's still in there!" protested Albert, but he was roughly manhandled away either way, the soldiers ignoring his protests.

"This isn't open to debate!" yelled the sergeant, turning away and rejoining his comrades at the line, shouting orders out to them.

"No!" screamed Albert, as he was dragged away by at least two soldiers now, herding him towards the parked supply truck which was almost overflowing with Raccoon's citizens now, all of them terrified and confused at the sheer number of green-clad army troops surrounding them. In the near distance, Albert could already make out more trucks coming down. What the hell was going on?

As he was lifted into the truck, he heard the sergeant's commanding voice nearby.

"Hold the line!"

And another burst of automatic gunfire was heard, as the line of soldiers let rip into the crowd.

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Within the grounds of a motel on the eastern fringes of Raccoon City, a military operation was in effect. Countless military personnel moved to and fro, setting up tents and lines of medical cots, ready to accommodate the no doubt countless refugees who would soon be arriving. Meanwhile, the motel staff and current occupants just watched bemused from within their rooms. It wasn't everyday you got to see a full-scale military operation up close. All the rank and file soldiers knew was that an incident had occurred in Raccoon City: a toxic waste spillage and also numerous city-wide riots were occurring as well. Two events such as this at once would be considered a suspicious occurrence to say the least, but right now they were all too busy to question things further.

A pair of supply trucks pulled up, disgorging even more soldiers, who promptly went to work setting up a series of wooden barricades topped with barbed wire to block off the road. Corporal Tobias Greene dismounted from one of the trucks, already in his fatigues and with his kit bag slung over his shoulder. He moved off, his face set, dodging through and around the other soldiers there. He knew nearly all of them on a first name basis, but right now he couldn't afford to stop and talk to any of them. He marched right up to a large command tent set up at the far side of the area, where more soldiers wearing gas masks busied themselves setting up barricades. Others occupied the perimeter, M4 rifles armed and readied for any possible danger lurking nearby.

Inside the tent, two figures were already locked in an intense conversation, pouring over an operational map spread out over a fold-up table. Fingers were being pointed here and there.

"-Raccoon City has a population of 150,000!" said one raised voice. "Do we even have enough manpower to cater to a population that size?!"

"Maybe not," replied the other voice in a cool manner, "but we're getting support through from other counties to help out, but in the mean time we'll just have to manage with what we have."

"And how long will that support take to mobilise?!" asked the other voice.

"As long as necessary," replied the second figure. "Now get out there and get that perimeter tightened up, Sergeant." There was a deep silence for several seconds.

"Yes sir," replied the sergeant, sounding deflated, as he exited the tent, looking somewhat agitated. He just gave Tobias a rather dirty look as he passed by, before walking on, shaking his head constantly. The Corporal ignored him as he stepped inside.

"Luietenant?" he asked, getting the other figure's attention. He was a tall man with short black hair, intense brown eyes, and wearing a firm look on his face, the same look he would wear a lot of the time.

"Tobias," he said with a slight sigh. "Glad you could make it."

Gordon Fletcher was a veteran of the Raccoon County Garrison, having served in it for a total of 15 years, and serving as a Lieutenant for the last 5 years. Despite his somewhat firm manner and appearance, he was a popular leader, and had the full support of nearly all of the county's high command. Tobias couldn't think of anyone better to command this operation than Fletcher.

"Me too," said the corporal, before adding, "what's the current situation?"

"Right now, we're hearing reports of a toxic waste spillage in the city," replied Fletcher.

"But there isn't a waste disposal facility within a hundred miles of Raccoon," noted Tobias. He had lived in the Raccoon County area for the last 5 years, so he knew the general features of the land like the back of his hand.

"Exactly," said Fletcher, shaking his head slightly. "But whatever the reason, none of us know yet. But our advance teams are already reporting signs of combat on the eastern fringes of the inner city."

"Combat?" asked Tobias. "Combat with who?"

"We don't know that either," replied Fletcher, moving to the other side of the tent and checking the radio frequency. "Initial reports say that some of the city's civilians are ranting about a 'cannibal cult' or something similar."

"Cannibal cut?" asked Tobias, an uneasy feeling spreading in his gut.

"I know it sounds a little crazy, but it's also the best we've got to go on at the moment," replied Fletcher, suddenly pressing a pair of clipboards into Tobias' hands. "Look, since you're here, you can make yourself useful. Arrange the medical cots, since we'll need them up and ready as soon as possible."

"Yes sir," answered Tobias obediently. Readjusting the strap of his kit bag, he stepped outside of the tent, that uneasy feeling still building up inside his gut.

It was unreal. That mystery caller from earlier on had been spot on in saying there would be an 'incident' occurring in Raccoon City, and it looked as though he were correct. But what type of incident exactly? And what did this man want from him? Right now, he had more immediate concerns to deal with. He would worry about that later on.

He approached some of the troops already setting up a line of cots under a nearby tent, and he dropped his kit bag into the shade of the overhanging tent. They looked up at the noise, and then stood to attention when they saw who it was. Despite the fact he was only a Corporal, Tobias was regarded by the rest of the company as Fletcher's number 2, since the Corporal always had a good sense of what his commanding officer wanted from his troop.

"Right guys, we need to get these things set up double-time," he announced, rolling up the sleeves on his fatigue shirt, and then glancing at one of the clipboards. "We have 200 cots on hand at the moment, and we have an extra 150 coming in if needed. We put them up in rows of 50, and move form there. Any questions?"

Nearby, one of the guards on perimeter duty raised a pair of hi-spec binoculars to his eyes, scanning some point in the distance. He could see the very faint outline of a supply truck trundling towards their position, the first in a line of four, and at the head of the column was humvee complete with top-mounted .50 machine guns.

"Here they come," he said aloud. Tobias glanced up and saw the dust cloud in the distance approaching.

"Allright, let's move!" he yelled to the others, reaching for a nearby cot.

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Lenny saw Captain Temple fall, as a group of those 'zombies' advanced on him bodily, despite the numerous bullet wounds each of them had suffered. He took a step back, but suddenly moved into the open car door behind him, knocking down the uniformed officer who had been stood just behind him. He fell out of Lenny's view, but he still heard the burst of the S.W.A.T captain's weapon going off, and he saw one of the zombies sprawl away, its head blown apart, but two more fell forward, and then he heard Temple's frenzied screams, followed by the sound of flesh being torn from the bone. Though it happened out of his direct viewpoint, he could still imagine the scene with gruesome detail in his mind.

"Shit!" he cried, even as another zombie threw itself onto the hood of the car in front of him, grabbing at him with its broken nails. He fell back in shock, before he aimed his shotgun towards its face and fired, blowing its head apart, and covering himself and Jeff in stinking gore. It splashed back onto the ones lining up behind, but they remained unfazed.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" yelled Jeff in terror, even as the screaming started.

It happened all along the barricade. Lenny saw at least two rookies get dragged screaming over the cars they were stood behind, before their attackers started to tear into them with their bare teeth. Lenny saw the bright red burst of crimson erupt from one's neck, before he was dragged down and eaten alive: a horrific fate for anyone to endure. Somewhere closer to his left, he saw a S.W.A.T officer force a zombie off of him by tearing his sidearm free from its holster and shoving it into the creature's face and blowing the trigger. As it fell to the ground, he barely had time to check the wound on his arm when two more barged into him, tackling him to the ground in an instant.

Further along, he saw Henry Collins stopping to reload his shotgun, before a pair of hands suddenly appeared from underneath the car he was stood behind, grabbing onto his ankles and pulling him onto his back. He thrashed about, trying to break free, before drawing his Beretta and firing a few shots into some area beyond Lenny's point of view. Then more hands grabbed onto Henry and he was dragged, kicking and screaming out of view. His scream was then cut off amidst a bloody gurgling sound, and the sound of tearing flesh. Lenny's stomach did a backflip. Lenny also saw Officer Perry Wendell unload the remainder of his final magazine into a throng of advancing zombies, only to run out. He continued to stand there, fixed to the spot, as they grabbed onto him and started to feed. He didn't even cry out or scream as he fell to his knees, the zombies continuing to chew on him.

The gruesome sights only served to heighten the terror felt, and Lenny saw at least two more officers run for their lives.

"Eat it you fuckers!" roared Jeff, as he unloaded another Beretta clip, killing at least six more zombies. They were packed in so close he could barely miss anyway. But now there were so many damned things they threatened to overrun the whole barricade in an instant. They couldn't hold out for much longer.

As if to reinforce this view, Lenny saw the young Eric Sands fall, at least four zombies holding onto him, chewing away at him, tearing at his flesh as he continued to fire his Beretta even as he fell, unloading the remainder of his magazine in a desperate attempt to kill as many of them as he could. Lenny saw Jean Harlow make a run for it as well, finally bottling it and turning on his heel, running for his life.

"Jean!" yelled Marvin, reaching after him, but was forced to turn back in time to fire his Mossberg shotgun into the zombies reaching out for him. The combined sounds of gunfire and the moaning was overwhelming. Even further along the line, he saw a terrified S.W.A.T officer lock himself inside one of the huge black vans as zombies massacred his comrades. But they weren't finished yet, as more of them suddenly moved into the vehicle, grabbing onto it, searching vainly for the door handles. The sheer weight of their combined mass actually moved the van: it balanced on two wheels for a moment, as though resisting gravity, before it finally fell, crushing several zombies and at least two uniformed officers beneath it. Even worse, the gap created by its fall allowed even more shambling monsters to pour through, heading straight for the nearest humans.

"Fall back! Fall back!" screamed someone, but Lenny couldn't tell who, as he looked around, trying to make sense of what the hell was going on.

_No no no no…__this isn't happening._

He saw Ben Campbell stumble and fall briefly, before getting back to his feet, grabbing for a Remington M870 shotgun that had been lying nearby and firing a round of buckshot into the mass of shambling flesh. Several bodies were thrown away from him, back into the main crowd. Lenny turned quickly, in time to see Marvin and Neil falling back, alongside several other uniformed officers, including Meyer, David Ford and Elliot Edward. A few surviving S.W.A.T operatives were among the group as well, rapidly leaving the massacre behind.

"Jeff! Come on!" cried Lenny, firing a round of buckshot into the throng of zombies that swarmed around the fallen S.W.A.T van to his left. A few of them fell, their skulls broken open like ripe melons, and others were punched off of their feet, knocking into one another like dominos. But they just staggered briefly and continued on, as though nothing had happened. He cocked the weapon and turned again, to see Jeff was slowly backing up to join him, still firing at the zombies clawing their way over the parked cruiser.

"Coming buddy!" he yelled, looking away for a brief second. "I'm-"

Lenny's words caught in his throat when he saw a male zombie wearing a reflective vest and a hard hat suddenly appear from around the side of the cruiser, making a move for Jeff, arms outstretched.

"Jeff!" screamed Lenny, and Jeff turned in time to see the monster coming at him. Wide-eyed, Jeff backed away and shot the creature right in middle of the face, throwing it backwards from him, blood spurting out from its ruined visage. Almost as soon as it had hit the ground, two more, both of them female, appeared from around the other side of the vehicle, coming straight for Jeff. He turned his body towards them, preparing to fire once again.

_Click._

His gun clicked on dry, and Lenny managed to catch a glimpse of his partner's terrified expression, before the monsters tackled into him, knocking him to the ground, digging their teeth into his bare arms. Jeff screamed in agony as blood erupted from the wounds

"Jeff!" yelled Lenny, trying to aim his shotgun as more zombies closed in, but considering how they were swarming over Jeff's fallen body, he couldn't risk firing a load of buckshot, lest he end up killing his own partner. Jeff was still alive, still screaming his lungs out, as more zombies entered the frenzy, tearing at his legs and his lower torso, until a pair of male zombies took hold of him and pulled hard. There was a sickening tearing sound, and suddenly his legs were separated from the rest of his body, his intestines trailing between the severed parts. Jeff's screams reached a new crescendo, even as the other zombies continued to tear at him with their teeth, as his head turned slightly, looking straight at Lenny, his eyes still wide as possible, as if pleading for help from his partner and old friend.

And then it was over in an instant. One of the zombies that had originally attacked Jeff took a hold of his head, and pulled. There was a sickening crack, and Jeff's skull was torn free from the rest of his body. Only then did his pained screaming finally cease.

Lenny opened his mouth and a scream of pure horror came out, having just witnessed his partner's messy death. He was still screaming as he fired his shotgun, knocking at least three of the zombies that had killed his partner backwards, off of Jeff's body, before he charged forward, kicking another in the face, breaking its nose and sending it flying back. Another one, a blonde female with the flesh on her face peeling away from the bone, lunged at him, teeth bared. Lenny turned his shotgun around and swung it like a baseball bat, the stock striking her in the jaw and making a wet 'smack' sound as it impacted. Her head snapped back, and he heard the sound of her neck breaking in two. She flopped to the ground soon after. He swung his shotgun back the other way, striking a man dressed in a tattered white shirt in the cheek, sending him twisting away. He looked down, at the two mutilated halves of Jeff's body, angry tears forming in his eyes. He heard the moaning once again, and prepared for another attack.

"Lenny!" screamed someone behind him, and he turned round to see Neil gesturing for him to follow as the others ran on ahead. "Get the hell out of there, now!"

Lenny turned back to face the zombie crowd forming on the opposite side of the barricade, lines of blank faces and milky white eyes, moaning pathetically, reaching for him over the parked police vehicles. Lenny wanted to kill every last one of them for what they had done to his partner, even if he had to do it with his bare hands. But right now, he was outnumbered several hundred to one, and didn't have a lot of ammo left for his shotgun. He backed away slowly as the same zombies he had shot before started to get to their feet, their bodies ripped apart by the buckshot, but still alive all the same.

Shaking his head in disbelief, Lenny turned and sprinted after Neil, as the haunting moans followed him back down the street.

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"I'm out!" screamed Harry hysterically.

"I'm nearly out!" cried one of the S.W.A.T officers, reloading his MP5. Soon enough, he'd be down to just using his sidearm.

"Jesus," whispered Albert, looking back at the crowd of empty faces in front of them and frantically loading some spare shells into his shotgun.

Despite the fact they had killed dozens of these freaks, more and more of them continued to pour out from God knew where. He counted at least 3 dozen before them at the current moment, and the fallen corpses of many more littered the tarmac, rivers of thick blood flowing down the street, into the drains. The chorus of moaning continued to hold up, even if the flow of wounded into the hospital had abated somewhat as well. The front doors were practically clear now, and all of the ambulances were gone as well, entering via the building's rear ambulance bay now. He couldn't see any sign of life behind the glass doors, which were now firmly shut tight. He wondered if they had forgotten about the officers outside, fighting for their lives to give them more time to save as many people as they could manage.

And their numbers were dwindling. One of the other S.W.A.T officers lay on his side behind the cruiser, the side of his neck torn apart, when one of those things had suddenly appeared from behind them, tearing into him with its bare teeth. Albert barely had time to turn and shoot the man dead before he had the chance to take another bite, but his colleague was already dead by the time he had hit the ground, blood pouring from the ugly wound in his neck. And now his brown eyes just stared up at the rapidly greying sky, lifeless.

"This never ends!" yelled Hawkes, sounding desperate. He too was running low on ammo for his M4 rifle, and had already used up the rest of his stock of grenades for the under slung grenade launcher. The ammo box was practically bare as well, so in short, they were screwed unless some major backup came along. And a sick feeling in Albert's gut told him it wasn't coming.

"We have to hold out for as long as we can!" cried Albert, opening fire again. His first load of buckshot impacted across the chests of three advancing males, the middle one wearing a yellow waterproof anorak that was slick with gore. And then they were all flying backwards, blood spraying in every direction.

"If we stay here, we're dead!" cried Jimmy, his voice rising in protest.

"We're not going anywhere!" growled Albert, turning on the young rookie. "We've got a duty to stand and protect this place, and that's exactly what we're going to do!" And with that, he turned back around to face the encroaching crowd, the closest of which was only 10 feet away from them, approaching with arms outstretched.

He started to open fire once more.

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Lenny leaned heavily against the brick wall next to him, taking in several deep breaths, his legs burning from the recent exertion. He was totally alone, as he had lost sight of his fellow officers not long ago when a massive pack of those things forced him to take a different route. He hung his head, trying to make sense of what the hell had just happened.

They were dead: people he had known during his entire service with the R.P.D, people he had gone drinking with, people he used to play poker with, people he considered his good friends: people he would share anything with. Dead, eaten alive by those zombie freaks. As crazy as that word seemed, it seemed an appropriate description for them, and the word had stuck in his mind.

Then he remembered Jeff, lying there in bloody pieces as those monsters-

He retched once, and then opened his mouth as a deluge of vomit came out, splattering onto the ground at his feet. He continued to retch a few more times, eyes screwed shut, as more vomit spewed out with each gasp for air. After several seconds, he opened his eyes again, breathing heavily, and stared down at the massive puddle of vomit the size of Texas at his feet. He spat a few times to clear the horrible taste of bile from his tongue and nose, before he stood up straight, looking straight ahead down the alleyway before him. Sweat formed on his brow, and he blinked a few times, trying to focus his sight. But then his mind started to wander, away from his dead comrades and those who could still be alive. His thoughts went back to his family, the most important element in his life. Still back at home, while chaos ravaged the city-

"Lenny!" cried a voice behind him, breaking him out of his thoughts.

He turned slowly to see two figures in filthy and soiled R.P.D uniforms come running up to him. They were both male, and both of them looked young enough to have just come out of high school. One was blonde and the other had deep chestnut hair, both hairstyles cropped very close to their heads. Lenny recognised them as two of the force's countless new recruits, bought in recently to help with the escalation of troubles in the city. Lenny didn't know either of their names, but they obviously knew his name well enough.

"Is there anyone else with you?" asked Lenny blankly.

"You're kidding right?" shrieked the blonde-haired rookie. "They're dead! They're all dead! We just ran for it! Jesus…"

"Those zombies…where the hell did they come from?!" asked the redhead, eyes wide and terrified.

"Who knows," said Lenny, sounding miles away.

"So what the hell do we do now?!" asked the blonde. "We're screwed!"

"No, we're not," said Lenny suddenly. "Head back to the precinct. That's where everyone else who's still alive would likely be heading. And it'd be the logical place to fall back to at any rate."

"Head back the station?! You're insane!" yelled the redhead. "Those things are all over the place, so how the hell are we meant to get there? By magic carpet?!"

"If you take your time, and use the back alleys, you should be able to get around the larger crowds," answered Lenny, looking at some point in the distance. "If you go now, then you should get there in good time." And then he started to casually walk away from them.

"Hold on, where are you going?!" asked the blonde in a high-pitched voice. "Aren't you coming with us?"

"…my family," said Lenny simply, seeing their faces appear in his mind. "They're still at home. I need to go and save them."

"You can't be serious?" asked the redhead, incredulous. "Dude, its not worth it-"

"Do you have a family in this city?!" asked Lenny suddenly, whirling on the young rookie and getting right up in his face. "No? Well then, you would never understand what I'm feeling right about now. My family is more important to me than anything else in this damned shithole right now, and I'm going to save them even if it kills me in the end! I made a promise that I'd come for them, and I've never broken a promise I made to my family in my life!"

He turned away and walked away a few steps, still bristling in annoyance, breathing deeply to himself. The other two officers continued to stand there, watching him warily, until one of them spoke up eventually.

"Can we convince you otherwise?" asked the voice from behind him.

"No," was the instant reply. Another pause.

"Then be careful, Lenny."

Lenny smiled to himself slightly, looking back over his shoulder. "You two be careful as well."

And with that, Lenny Bristol pumped his shotgun, before taking off at a sprint, disappearing down the narrow alleyway in an instant. The two R.P.D rookies continued to stand there for a while after he had gone.

"Crazy bastard," muttered the redhead.

"Maybe," said the blonde, "but he's made his choice. We should get the hell out of here as well. Come on."

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"All set?" asked Ryan Benson, looking back at his companions.

"Set," replied Miles Kennedy in reply, making sure that Harold was in a comfortable position, hanging between Miles and Patrick by his arms: Patrick to the left and Miles to the right. Hardly the best way for a badly wounded person to travel, but they didn't really have any other choice in the matter. Harold was still muttering to himself, but now his words were just a mumbled mix of half-words and random sounds.

"Yeah," nodded Patrick, on the other side, already perspiring from his forehead.

"Y-yes, we're ready," said Amy quietly, as she and Michelle readied themselves, in the middle of the small group that had formed just before the back door into the canteen. Ryan was at the front of the group, his trusty baseball bat readied, while a few of the others had secured their own form of weapon previously. Both Amy and Michelle had procured a kitchen knife each, and Miles had also taken a frying pan with him, which now hung in his right hand. Although a gun would be preferable in this instance, they couldn't afford that luxury right now. Ryan also found himself wishing he had picked up Eric Chambers' gun from before, but considering the poor guy had just blown his brains out just previously, he just couldn't bring himself to take it along at the time.

"Allright then…go!"

Ryan threw the back door open, allowing the cool breeze from outside to flow in, and he stepped out, glancing both ways down the street. It was relatively clear, despite the signs of chaos that surrounded him: windows on the building opposite had been smashed in, and nearby a car had been completely overturned, a person's arm hanging limply out of the shattered driver's side window. Even further down the road, he could see a small car pile-up, at least 3 vehicles crumpled and mangled into one another, unrecognisable from their original forms. Flames licked from the engine block of one car, smoke billowing into the sky.

"Come on, come on!" he urged, gesturing for the others to follow him. They came out gradually; taking the time to make sure Harold's injury wasn't antagonized in any way. Soon enough, they were all outside, and they made their way down the street to the left, towards the junction ahead, Ryan leading the way ahead. From there, it would be a simple right turn and a straight path down towards where Amy's parents resided. Simple: in theory at least.

"I hope this doesn't take too long," muttered Patrick under his breath, already huffing from having to carry Harold along with him.

"Just shut up and walk," growled Miles in annoyance from next to him.

They were within 15 feet of the junction now, when the first shambling figures appeared from around the corner of the campus building. A lot of them were coated in blood from head to toe, and several of them were immediately familiar to the students: be they former classmates, or even faces they just saw everyday on campus.

"Oh Christ!" yelled Patrick as they noticed the small group starting to approach. The one closest to them was a young man with brown hair wearing a red jacket and blue jeans. The front of his person was splattered in gore, as was the front of his chin, his goatee beard sodden through with bloody chunks of meat as well. Ryan wondered what source the meat came from, but only for a brief moment.

"Move!" yelled Ryan, moving forward and swinging his bat high. There was an awful crack of aluminium on bone as his weapon made impact with the side of the man's head, and he went sprawling to the ground with blood spurting from his wound. Michelle let off an abrupt scream, as he hit the ground with a wet smack. Ryan was already swinging again, towards the face of a brunette girl with one side of her upper torso badly chewed into. He connected with her jaw, shattering it like glass and sending her spinning away. Blood sprayed onto the vacant face of a figure in a white lab coat, who was approaching from behind her.

It was Dr. Barnes. Despite the countless bite wounds that covered nearly every inch of his arms and upper torso, he was still walking. Most of the skin on his face had been ripped away as well, meaning his visage was just a grinning, bloody skull with empty eyes. Ryan was only able to recognise him due to the thick-framed spectacles that hung from the lab coat's top pocket, the way Barnes always kept them on his person. Ryan found himself staring at the grinning visage for a long time, seemingly enchanted by the pale white eyes as they came towards him.

"Oh Jesus!" shrieked Miles from somewhere behind Ryan. Ryan continued to stare at the zombified Dr. Barnes for a little bit longer, his stomach doing back flips, before he stepped forward, swinging his baseball bat with both hands.

_CRACK!_

The Dr. Barnes zombie fell to the tarmac, half of his face mashed beyond recognition.

"That's for all those times you came down on me, you bastard!" he yelled at the corpse. "Not so smug now, are you?!" he then cried, making him feel a little bit better considering the current circumstances.

"Ryan! Come on!" shouted Miles behind him, as he swung his frying pan into the face of an approaching male zombie. There was a hollow _donk! _as the utensil made contact, and then several of the zombie's teeth went flying off to the side in small bursts of crimson, its head twisting away.

"Coming!" yelled Ryan back, turning and jogging back out of range of the other approaching zombies, following after his companions. From all around them, the mindless former residents of Raccoon City drove out at them from the shadows.

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"Get another damned medic in here!" yelled Tobias Greene, as he struggled to hold a man delirious with pain down.

"Roger!" shouted back the private in the tent with him, dashing off to find a medic, if there was one left. The company's current medical personnel were all occupied with the constant inflow of survivors from the city.

Most of the people coming in were relatively in one piece, though a few of them had the odd cut and bruise. Quite a few of them were covered in blood, but not their own thankfully. Some had more serious injuries such as broken bones. But practically all of them had this far away look in their eyes, and quite a few of them, mainly the women but a few men and children as well, were in hysterics, shrieking about their loved ones, and of other things he couldn't make out. And besides, he didn't spend too much time trying to decipher each lone person's cries when there was many more in need of medical attention.

One of the medics finally got some free time, and both of them held down the man Tobias had been wrestling with just previously, all the while other people continued to yell in their ears.

"They killed her! They killed my baby, right in front of me!"

"What the hell was wrong with them?!"

"Goddamned monsters!"

_Monsters? _Thought Tobias to himself for a moment. _What the hell is going on exactly?_

"Keep an eye one him!" ordered Tobias, slowing backing away as the man seemed to calm down, ceasing his thrashing motions.

"Sure," said the medic, showing a worried expression on his face. He looked about as freaked out as the Corporal was feeling right about now. Tobias quickly stepped outside, even as a half-dozen more soldiers trooped past, carrying a couple of large cases between them. Then he heard the thumping of helicopter blades, and he looked straight up in time to see a pair of Blackhawk transport choppers pass overhead, the downdraft from their rotors enough to nearly bowl him off of his feet. He shielded himself as they passed by, flying towards the city.

He stood out in the open air for a while, trying to ignore the screams of the incoming refugees, the barking voices of his fellow troops as they moved to and fro ferrying equipment, and the sounds of truck engines as they set off towards the city once more, no doubt with more people to be attended to by the company's limited resources. He moved away from plain view, into the spot behind the tent, where his kit bag had been moved to, to accommodate more space for the cots inside. He looked down at it for a few seconds, before glancing around to check that he was alone.

Then he opened it up and pulled out the plain package he had received in the post earlier today. He didn't know what made him bring it along, but following the mystery phone call and seeing the main story on the local news, he was starting to have doubts, and brought it along with him, though he still had to open it to see what was inside exactly.

BRING! BRING!

He nearly jumped out his skin when he heard the unmistakable sound of a cell phone going off. His hand moved down to his pocket, before he realised that his phone was back at the barracks, where he always left it when on duty. Also, this ring tone consisted of two sharp rings, while his own just had one long ring to its tone.

He then looked down at the package, and realised that the sound was coming from inside it. He quickly tore open one end of the packaging, reaching his hand in shortly afterwards, feeling through a layer of bubble wrap and wrapping his fingers around a solid object, pulling it out just as it started to ring again.

BRING! BRING!

It was brand new, but plain looking: white casing with a small screen and black buttons. The screen was currently glowing a warm green colour at the moment, and two letters were showing up under the caller ID: 'D.L'.

_Who the hell could that be?_He thought to himself. Then he quickly remembered the name given to him by the mystery caller from beforehand.

BRING! BRING!

Quickly, he pressed the answer key and lifted the phone to his ear. "Hello?" he asked, warily.

"Ah, I see you got my package then," replied the voice on the other side, the exact same voice that had woken him earlier on in the day.

He nearly dropped the phone in shock, feeling as though his entire world had been turned upside-down.

"You again?!" he asked instead, his voice lowered, as he checked both sides to see if anyone was standing nearby to overhear the conversation. "You know buddy, you're following me around like a bad smell."

"Well I do apologise if you feel that way, Mr Greene," sighed the voice, "but I had to conduct myself in this manner, you see."

"Uh-huh," said Tobias, not fully convinced. "Listen, you going to tell me what the hell is going on here? Unless your story about an incident in Raccoon City was just very good guesswork."

"Ah yes, I suppose I'd better explain myself," replied the mystery caller, sounding as though he was having a casual conversation with a close friend. "Well as I told you beforehand, my name is Daniel Linderman-"

_Knew it-_

"-and myself and my…colleagues, have a vested interest in the events happening in Raccoon City at this very moment."

"And what interest would that be?" asked Greene casually, still glancing to and fro to see if anyone was watching. "If you know what's going on-"

"A mutual interest, that's all," assured the man known as Daniel Liderman. "All will be known in due course, but right now we should discuss your role in this matter."

Tobias scoffed. "'My role'? I've agreed to nothing yet you-"

"I know you will agree to help me, Mr Greene," interrupted the voice, sounding a bit more sinister this time. "After all, considering your circumstances, I believe you won't have a choice."

Greene considered these words for a while, anger building up inside him. He didn't know who this guy was exactly, but the way he talked condescendingly to Greene suggested he was some sort of upper-class asshole, the type with more money than sense.

"You know what?" asked Tobias, anger creeping into his voice. "You don't know a damned thing about me, so who the hell do you think you are, calling up me out of the blue and-"

"I know nothing?" asked Linderman with a soft laugh. "Well I know this: Tobias Greene, only son of Mary and Thomas Greene, both of them business clerks in the town of Maple, near to Raccoon City."

Green felt his blood run cold.

"Rather than follow in your parent's footsteps, you became a member of the local military garrison, which you have served in for the last 4 years. You were promoted to Corporal recently, under the command of Lieutenant Gordon Fletcher, and you have excelled yourself in organisational capacities, serving as the good Lieutenant's 2nd in command despite the rank differences."

Tobias felt as though he were going to be sick. This man was reciting his entire life in just a few statements, as though he had known him for his whole life. It was unsettling to say the least. And he just knew the worst was coming.

"-and you also have a liking for gambling, don't you my friend?"

The Corporal felt his heart sink. Yes, the worst was about to come.

"Yes, card games mostly, including poker. Why, at last check, you owe at least $10000 to a local loan shark by the name of…Benny Maverick, is it? Your most recent 'reminder' beating only took place last week, and if I'm not mistaken, then you probably still carry the bruises from that altercation, am I correct?" There was a pause from Linderman, and then he carried on, his tone becoming more sinister. "Because Mr Greene, I do know things about you. A lot of things in fact, so please don't dismiss me as some prank caller wasting your time, because trust me, I don't have the luxury of time wasting."

"Who are you?" whispered Greene, sounding as low as any man could possibly get.

"Like I said, I have a vested interest in Raccoon City," repeated the voice, "and we need your help to maintain that interest the best we possibly can."

"And what's in it for me?" asked the Corporal, playing along.

"Well if you help us, then we can make your previous transgressions go away," assured Linderman. "That debt you have amassed? A mere drop in the ocean for us."

"…and if I refuse?" asked Tobias, trying to get an idea of the bigger picture.

"Oh, you're welcome to turn down my offer if you wish," replied Linderman in a casual manner. "But I'm sure Benny would want to collect on his debt at some point…and would you survive another reminder from his heavies?"

Green cursed silently to himself. He didn't really fancy agreeing to this man's proposal, lest it lead him down a very dark path indeed. The man still hadn't told him exactly what kind of incident was happening in the city, and he seemed unwilling to provide all of the details as well: a sure sign of fishy goings on. But still, his offer was very tempting: Tobias had no way to rustle up $10000 within two weeks time, unless he robbed a bank: and he didn't fancy getting himself killed to clear that off.

"Well?" asked the smooth tones of Linderman. "What will it be? Taking your chances with the scum of the underworld, or accepting my offer and making it all go away?"

The Corporal cursed again, looking around to see if he were being watched. He wasn't, and he was thankful, as he gave his answer.

"Fine. What do you want me to do?"

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He was screwed.

Albert Jackson rammed the barrel of his Beretta handgun into the gaping mouth of the teenage boy coming towards him, his blonde hair coming out in clumps, and the yellow t-shirt he wore slick with gore and other bodily fluids. He didn't even flinch as he chomped down on the gun's barrel instinctively.

BANG!

He snapped back, the back of his skull blown out, his blood spraying everywhere, even onto Albert's face and the front of his shirt, but he didn't even flinch, since he was practically coated in stinking gore and brain matter anyway. His weapon's slide locked back in place, its magazine emptied, as he stepped back, looking over the carnage before him, his teeth gritted. Right now, he was looking forward to this day being over. He looked down, at the multitude of bodies lying slumped on his side of the car.

They were dead. All dead. It had happened so fast: the S.W.A.T member who had died just previously had suddenly risen to his feet, despite the fact his throat had been ripped out beforehand. Growling like a rabid beast, he had thrown himself at Harry latching onto him and tearing a chunk of flesh out of the back of his neck. Harry had fallen to the ground, blood streaming out of his wound, even as Hawkes and Jimmy unloaded their own weapons into their former colleague, their faces showing masks of sheer terror. Just afterwards, a sudden chorus of moaning was heard, and Albert turned to see a half dozen of those freaks come charging towards them, seemingly appearing out of thin air.

It descended into a close-quarters battle, bodies everywhere, gunfire and muzzle flash threatening to drown out his other senses. Crimson liquid went everywhere, on his face, into his eyes. He heard the other S.W.A.T operative go down, screaming like a wounded animal as an elderly woman in a floral dress tore into his collarbone with a feral hunger. Sergeant Hawkes screamed in fury as he unloaded the rest of his final M4A1 magazine into the mass of rotting flesh, tearing right through them, but one lone female dressed in a red jacket and pants snuck past his firing line, clamping down on his neck and tearing out his jugular vein. Defiant to the end, the S.W.A.T sergeant reached out and snapped her neck like a twig, killing her even as they both slumped to the ground. He was looking up at the sky now, his eyes plain and lifeless.

Jimmy was still alive, barely. Albert didn't know how he managed to do so, even as he watched the young rookie pull himself out from underneath the pile of bodies that had been left behind by the mad scrum. He saw Sergeant Hawkes and Harry lying there dead, and he let off a hysterical scream of terror, falling back against the car, before looking up at a blood-stained Albert, his eyes wide white orbs against his blood-smeared face. The poor kid didn't deserve to go through something horrifying such as this.

Albert turned away from him and looked down the road, where yet another mob was gathering, and this one seemed even larger than the last one: as wide as the street itself, and at least a dozen bodies deep. He looked over the rows of pale faces and empty eyes, and felt his heart sink. There was no way in hell they could even survive this next wave, unless some major backup was coming.

Hands shaking, he loaded his Beretta handgun with the last full magazine he had on his person. The last 15 bullets he had on him. His shotgun had been ripped from his hands during the scuffle, and he couldn't find it no matter how hard he looked around.

"Jimmy, how you holding up for ammo?" he asked quietly, trying to remain some semblance of professionalism. There was no response, just Jimmy's panicked breathing. "Jimmy?"

BANG!

He spun around at the sound of the gunshot, and he saw Jimmy, lying slumped against the cruiser's rear door. His Beretta was hanging uselessly in his right hand, and blood was still seeping from the fresh gunshot wound to his head. His face seemed to show a resigned expression, resigned to his fate of dying by his own hand rather than being eaten alive by those damned monsters.

"Shit!" cursed Albert, turning away from Jimmy's body and towards the approaching mob in the street ahead of him. Now it was just him, all alone against a veritable army of lunatics coming at him. Seeing no other option, he grabbed for his radio, which had been hanging at his waist for the entire duration of the hospital defence. It was slick with gore and something else he didn't want to know about.

"This is Albert Jackson at Raccoon General!" he cried, keying into the open channel. "All of my companions are dead! I repeat, everyone else is dead! There is a huge mob coming down the street and it is just me! I need some damned back-up, right now!"

There was only a long burst of static from the radio. He stared down at it, before glancing to the side at the huge mob advancing down the street towards him, moaning eerily.

"I said I need back-up now, dammit!" he screamed, to no avail. There was nothing but static on the other end of the line, no-one there to heed his cries. He continued to stare down at it for an age, and then let his hand slump lifelessly, his head lowered. All the time, that damned moaning could be heard nearby.

Is this what it had come to? 25 years of his life devoted to protecting this city and its people, and this was how it was going to end? Eaten alive by those pale-skinned lunatics that were choking the streets, sweeping away everything before them? That was no way for any veteran officer to end his life, as far as he knew.

But this job was the only thing he had known this last 25 years, and he still had a duty to protect and serve, no matter how impossible the odds. He carefully clipped his radio back to his belt and straightened himself up, marching towards the massive crowd bearing down on him. He pulled back the slide of his Beretta, mentally preparing himself for what was to come.

"Come on, you bastards!" he shouted, spurring a few of them to stagger towards him at an increased rate. "Who's first?" As if in reply to his question, a burly-looking bearded man in a leather biker jacket and grubby jeans came at him, blood dribbling down the front of his chin.

BANG!

The man snapped backwards, a bullet wound punched through his forehead. Beside him, another man in the pale white overalls of the city's utilities workface charged, before he was flying backwards with a shot to the face that shattered most of the front of his skull, and then a gangly female with the bone on her upper arms was the next to fall, shot right between the eyes. With the first few deaths, more of the crowd spurred into action, at least thirty of them breaking away and coming towards the lone R.P.D officer, as though the ocean itself was bursting through a gap in the sea wall.

Albert stood his ground, taking his time to drop each pale lunatic with a single shot to the head, killing each one instantly. His face was set as he moved his aim from one to the next, only pausing long enough to land the fatal shot. The sharp sounds of the gunfire were quickly swallowed up by the flood of empty moaning from the assembled crowd. And then the inevitable sound was heard.

_Click._

He tossed his bone dry weapon aside, and reaching for his night-stick at his belt, pulling it free just as an elderly man in a grey sweater made a lunge for him, but Albert swung his night-stick around, striking the man on the cheek and throwing him to the ground in a light spray of blood. He tried to rise to his feet shortly after, but Albert swung down, cracking open the back of the man's skull. He didn't move again. As he rose up, Albert swung his weapon around from side to side, sending another two crazed people falling to the tarmac. He nearly slipped in the gore on the ground, but he somehow kept his balance as someone else's nails raked into his shirt, tearing the fabric open. He swung the night-stick into the face of a red-headed woman wearing business clothes, breaking her nose.

They swarmed around him, but he kept swinging his night-stick desperately around him, forcing them backwards but dealing little actual damage, breaking a few bones into the bargain. He shouted out in anger, in defiance, as they reached out towards him, their pale white eyes showing no emotion at all. And then a young man wearing a torn black shirt and brown pants attacked from behind, latching onto Albert's forearm and tearing a mouthful of flesh out in a burst of red liquid.

Albert screamed in agony, before grabbing onto the man's head and flipping him forward, over the veteran officer's head. As he hit the ground hard, he was swinging down with his stick, cracking the man's head open and splattering his blood and brain matter across the ground. He could already feel the strength leaving his body, as blood flowed freely from the wound, but he couldn't do much to deny his multiple attackers for any longer. Another man grabbed onto him from behind, tearing into the side of his neck and pulling him back to the ground. Albert continued to thrash around and yell as they fell.

Then when they were both on the ground, Albert continued to scream out, in agony and defiance, as the countless figures hovered over him, swallowing up his view of the sky. Albert Jackson continued to scream, as another chunk of flesh was ripped from his neck, and the other figures reached down towards him. Their damned moaning was the last thing he heard.

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"Shit! Get them off me, get them off- AHHHHH!!!!"

Officer Birch's dying scream was horrific to hear, as Zac saw him thrown onto the hood of the police cruiser by at least three of those zombies, tearing at any part of his exposed flesh they could reach. The big man's efforts to throw them off were in vain, as his high-pitched dying scream rose up into a high-pitched crescendo, before it was silenced as one of them ripped out the front of his throat, chewing on the flesh contently.

Zac turned away in time to avoid witnessing the next part of the grisly scene, as even more swarmed around Birch's body, as though it were an all-you-can-eat buffet.

They were dead, all three of the officers who had been at the barricade when Zac had first arrived. They had just stood their ground and opened fire into the advancing crowd, only killing a few with perfect headshots. Most of them took up 10 shots to the torso before dropping dead, their own blood dripping down from the fresh bullet wounds. And now all three of them were dead, within the space of 25 minutes.

Zac knew he had to get out of there before he was the next one to be on the dinner menu. Keeping his breakfast down, Zac turned away from the scene, before he suddenly yelped in horror.

There was a face plastered against the car window, the face of a bearded man with one side of his face gradually peeling off of the bone, his exposed teeth coated in fresh blood and dirt. His eyes were pale white and totally devoid of emotion, like all the others he had seen so far today. The man beat against the glass with his bare hands, leaving bloody smears where he made contact, but not gaining access. Zac continued to stare into the man's empty eyes, right up until a second figure slammed against the window just behind him, causing him to nearly hit the ceiling in fright. He looked backwards, into the vacant stare of a blonde woman with most of her teeth missing, and felt his anxiety rise.

Shouting out in fear, he kicked out with both his feet, throwing the car door wide open, and slamming it into the bearded man standing outside, sending him tumbling to the ground. In another instance, Zac was bounding forwards, leaping out of the car and dodging around the fallen man's clumsy attempt to grab out for him. The young student sprinted away down the street, his legs taking him anywhere but right here.

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Lenny slowed right down when he heard his radio suddenly start to speak up in short bursts of static. He took it in his hand and looked at it for a while, trying to discern any words among the mess, but he wasn't having much luck. Maybe the radio links back at the precinct were on the blink. And then after what seemed like an age…

"…at Raccoon General!...dead! I repeat…else is…d!"

Lenny couldn't recognise the voice, no matter how hard he tried to recall some familiar face to mind. And then the next part came through crystal clear.

"I said I need back-up now, dammit!"

It was Albert. Lenny remembered he had been down at the hospital, investigating the theft of those dead bodies from the morgue, along with Harry and Jimmy. And by the sounds of things, the situation at Raccoon General was looking very bleak indeed. And Lenny was several blocks away from the hospital, in no position to offer up any kind of aid to his colleague. He'd been so focused to getting somewhere else that he had forgotten that there could be unknown numbers of his fellow officers still alive somewhere in the city, fighting off insurmountable odds.

There was more garbled static from his radio, and then he could hear sharp pops coming through, and he quickly realised it was gunfire. Despite the fact Albert sounded as though he was done to himself, he was still making an effort to fight back. Lenny waited tensely, wondering how many bullets Albert had left exactly. He counted 15 shots, before his radio cut out once again, before hopping back in and out of transmission, Lenny picking out small pieces of sound amongst the general static drone.

He could hear shouting and struggling from Albert, and then a sudden, piercing cry of pain, which quickly rose up into a series of screams of sheer agony, the sounds of flesh being torn from the bone, and a constant chorus of moaning. Lenny thought he could detect a hint of anger and defiance in the screams as well, but the poor quality of the transmission made it hard to be sure. Having heard enough, Lenny ended the transmission.

"Dammit," he said quietly, before going on his way again.

**A/N: Phew. Long chapter syndrome strikes again.**

**Sorry for the long update between this chapter and the last one guys, but I've been on holiday recently and also…well I'll be honest, my brother died in a car crash 3 weeks ago and suffice to say, fan fiction has been the last thing on my mind recently. Though at the same time, spending time on my stories does help out somewhat. **

**Anyway, next on the agenda, I intend to update the next chapter for The Fall of Raccoon, and (cue shameless plug) if any of you haven't read that story yet, I recommend you to at least have a look, since some events in that story and in this one do cross-over from one another, and I would appreciate it immensely as well (end shameless plug).**

**Anyways, R+R as usual please. **


	6. The First Day

Chapter 6: The First Day

**September 26****th**** 1846 hours**

In the large board room, far across the country in New York, Umbrella's Board of Director's gathered. A gathering of 12 individuals, each of them the most powerful figures within the company's ranks, headed by CEO Ozwell Spencer himself. Each member was the head director of a facility located within the world's major cities, including London, Paris, New York, Madrid, Tokyo, Sydney, and more. This meeting was being hosted by Daniel Lindeman, an esteemed member of the company for the last 40 years and current director of the New York arm of the company.

As the directors sat around the massive oak table, ruffling their papers and exchanging greetings, Ozwell Spencer watched, his expensive black suit practically hanging off of his bony frame. He was accompanied by 3 of his personal aides, holding onto heavy files or any other important items required by their master. Also, a young man at a typewriter sat in the far corner of the room, ready to take the minutes for the meeting when it started. He watched the other directors conversing for a few moments, until he finally spoke.

"Are we all ready?" he finally wheezed, and the room immediately fell silent, despite the fact his voice was barely audible, he still commanded the utmost respect.

"Yes, we are, my Lord," replied Lindeman himself, a man in his late sixties with well-trimmed white hair and a beard. He sat near the head of the table, to Spencer's right, his hands clasped before him. Despite his somewhat polite exterior and manner, Lindeman was known to be something of a bastard when he wanted to be, and this earned him a certain modicum of respect within the company. The other directors nodded in acknowledgement of this statement.

"Then we shall begin," announced Spencer, who glanced down at the itinerary before him, and as if on cue, the London director, James Ramsay, rose to his feet and spoke quickly and directly in his slight London accent.

"First of all, esteemed directors," he asked, "is it true that there has been a full scale outbreak of the T-Virus confirmed within Raccoon City?"

"Yes," answered Spencer immediately. He saw no need to beat around the bush. Ramsay was taken aback, as were the other directors, who immediately began to confer between one another in hushed tones.

"But as I am aware, the local military forces have already secured the city limits, haven't they?" added Lindeman suddenly, raising an eyebrow, speaking in that high-brow, almost patronising tone he always used, even when speaking with his friends.

"That is correct," replied Spencer, not even batting an eyelid as to why the New York director knew about that specific detail. "My sources inform me that the city borders have already been cordoned off from the outside world, so there is no immediate danger of the virus spreading outside of the city."

"With all due respect, Lord Spencer," said Jin Nakamura, director of the Tokyo branch, rising to his feet and clearing his throat. "We have had outbreaks in the past where it's been presumed that we have contained the initial outbreak, only for it to spread beyond the initial site. I'm sure anyone in this room can attest to how many times we've had to cleanup what started out as a little mess. And if the whole city's been infected, then this is the worst disaster in the company's history! If this was traced back to us, then the public would hang us!"

A few voices rose up in agreement, but they didn't change Spencer's firm expression, as he locked eyes with the Tokyo director.

"Have that outburst stricken from the record," the CEO announced coldly.

"Yes sir," said the minutes taker, sat a few feet away from the main table. Mr Nakamura slowly sat down, deflated, and the cries of support that had followed his statement faded away, as Spencer continued.

"I am fully aware of the implications of an outbreak this size, my friends," the CEO stated, "which is why we are all here today. The initial quarantine had been erected, yet we still have serious concerns for the immediate future, and we need to band together if we are to come to a solution. And besides, I'm sure Mr Lindeman would like to feel as though his hospitality is appreciated."

Lindeman offered a slight smile to himself, as the other directors were deathly silent, before the Sydney director rose to his feet to speak. "Well of course we all appreciate Mr Lindeman's hospitality," he said in his noticeable accent, "but I'm sure our good Japanese friend was just voicing his concerns, like I'm sure we all have."

_Pathetic boot-licker, _thought Lindeman to himself, his smile starting to drop. _You're all sycophants, hoping to scrape some tasty scraps from your master's table before it gets cleared…_

"Noted," replied Spencer, before coughing a few times, first lowly, before it quickly developed into a wheezing, wracking cough. A few of the CEO's aides suddenly appeared at his side, before he brushed them off. "I'm fine…leave me!" he said firmly, in between bouts of choking coughs. After a few moments, the coughing subsided.

"Are you OK, Lord Spencer?" asked Ramsay, rising slightly.

"I'm fine," said Spencer, clearing his throat. "But we have more promising matters at hand."

"Noted," replied Christie Henri, director of the Paris facility. She was a middle-aged woman with short black hair and a rather uptight manner about her. A born American, she had moved to Paris when younger to work for Umbrella, but by now she had started to adopt a French accent and even some French characteristics.

"With regards to the Raccoon City outbreak," she then asked, "has it been confirmed how much of the population have been exposed to the virus?"

"At current, we have no confirmed figures," replied Spencer, "but I think it is safe to assume that at least half of the population have been exposed."

"And how large is Raccoon's population?" she asked, her voice sounding a little thin.

"150,000."

A deathly silence fell within the room. It took another statement from Ramsay to clear the air.

"150,000?" he repeated. "But then, in a confined urban environment such as that, it wouldn't take very long for the virus to spread amongst the rest of the population…oh God," he then finished, the implications starting to sink in.

"An outbreak of that size would be impossible to contain," mentioned one of the other directors, shaking his head. "Even if we deployed our entire U.B.C.S regiment they'd be wiped out in no time…and there's no way we could deploy the Trashsweepers without someone catching on-"

"But we are still deploying the U.B.C.S," said Spencer, and nearly every head in the room turned in horror to face the CEO.

"But Lord Spencer," laughed one of the other directors, "you heard it yourself: if we deploy the U.B.C.S into the city then they'll be wiped out to the man! And how much have we spent on forming them? For equipment, training, vehicles?"

"There's another purpose to their deployment, I assure you," replied Spencer, opening the large brown envelope before him and removing a piece of paper. "May I refer you all to the documents before you?"

There was a brief bustle of movement as the directors slowly opened the envelopes before them, dumping the contents out onto the large table and taking a closer look at the first sheet in the pile, which was headed 'Operation: Barvo-16.'

"Bravo-16?" asked Henri. "What is this?"

"We have trained and placed numerous 'supervisors' among the ranks of the U.B.C.S," explained Spencer bluntly. "All is detailed within that document, but in short, all supervisors are tasked with collecting and detailing any combat data regarding the zombies and other B. created during the outbreak-"

"I'm sorry," snapped the Sydney director angrily, rising to his feet. "I thought we were here to discuss how to salvage this bloody mess in the first place, not work on ways to collect more combat data-"

"With all due respect, good sir," interrupted Lindeman, rising to his feet and adjusting his tie, "we are still years behind on combat data for many of our main B., and we cannot find buyers unless we have proof that those creations are worth their price tag."

"Oh, of course," said the Sydney director sarcastically, "never mind the fact that 150,000 people are as good as dead, and that blood is on our hands! What if people start asking questions? You know we're all accountable for this!"

"That's enough!" barked Spencer, and the two directors shut their mouths immediately, turning to face the aged CEO. "If you have differences, sort them out in your own time. But right now, I need to see that you are all in agreement with me on this. You all know Mr Lindeman is correct…"

There was a hushed whisper around the table, and some of the directors started to talk amongst themselves, as Spencer just watched and waited. After a short pause, a vote was taken. Every director, aside from the Sydney, director, agreed to the deployment of the entire U.B.C.S regiment.

"Then it is decided," announced Spencer flatly. "The U.B.C.S shall be deployed.

"This is bull," muttered the Sydney director, shaking his head, but his comment went unheeded.

Spencer then turned towards one of his aides and nodded, and the aide retrieved a remote control from one of his pockets and pressed a button, aiming it towards the far side of the room. A large screen suddenly lit up, and then finally cleared from static to show a face on the screen. It was a man who looked as though his face had been carved from granite, his right eye replaced by a long scar down his face, and his grey hair tied back in a pony tail. It was Sergei Vladimir, former Colonel in the Soviet Union and now Ozwell Spencer's most trusted enforcer, and founder of the U.B.C.S.

"Lord Spencer, how may I be of service?" asked the man in his heavy Russian accent, a chill running down the spines of the gathered directors. Sergei was the one man most of them feared more than Spencer himself, as he was always willing to carry out every command given to him…even the most extreme commands.

"Sergei, have the supervisors been given their instructions and gear?" asked Spencer.

"Yes, my Lord," replied Sergei, nodding. "The other men are totally oblivious to the supervisors' existence. And the supervisors have their orders too: they know they are not to aid anyone else in escaping the city."

A few disgusted expressions went up among the Board.

"That is good to know," replied Spencer. "Deploy the U.B.C.S into Raccoon."

"Your wish is my command," smiled Sergei, and then the former Colonel was gone, the screen just a wash of static. In his seat, Daniel Lindeman shifted uncomfortably.

_Damn you Spencer…you just made things a bit more awkward for all involved now._

_

* * *

_

Steven still couldn't quite get his head around what was going on, as he listened to the myriad of screaming and other noises coming from outside the hotel room. His jacket hung over the back of the nearby chair, and he had loosened his tie and tossed it away from him onto the bed, so he felt less constricted.

He glanced out of the window, into the street below. Dozens of people ran screaming past the Apple Inn, pursued by many more of those crazy people he had seen beforehand, down in the inn restaurant. They were all covered in blood, and many of them had horrific injuries as well: eyes gouged out, broken legs, missing arms; he even saw one man who was just reduced to an upper torso and arms, dragging himself feebly across the ground, his guts trailing a sticky red trail behind him.

_What's happened to them? _He wondered. _And where the hell are the police?!_

He had tried to dial the emergency services on more than one occasion via his cell phone, but each time the line was just engaged, and the third time he tried there was nothing. The phone in his room didn't work either. He wondered if what was happening here was affecting the entire city?

The door shuddered again and he jumped, looking back towards it as it rattled in its frame, the diseased woman he had pushed by just outside clearly still trying to get inside, but with a small dresser and a chair pressed up against it, she wouldn't be getting in anytime soon. She still moaned though, and frankly the sound was driving him mad.

"Shut up!" he screamed at the door, but the woman only moaned a bit louder and slammed against the door a few more times, excited by the noise within. Steven shook his head and turned away.

He looked out of the window again, trying to discern any other signs of life, but all he could see and hear were even more of those shambling freaks, their moaning rising and falling in a sort of choral manner. He wondered if they were trying to communicate between one another, or if it were just a random collection of sounds they made. He looked down at the crowd that passed beneath his window, and one of them, a bearded man in a grey jacket missing half the skin off of his face, looked up at him, his pale white orbs seeming to stare into the depths of Steven's soul.

The Umbrella employee gulped lowly and stepped back from the window, drawing the curtains promptly.

* * *

"Oh Geez, now what?" asked Miles, as the group drew to a halt.

They were nearly on Willow View Avenue now, just about a stone-throw's away from Amy's home, but it looked as though they couldn't take the direct approach. Just ahead, they could see an entire swarm of zombies clogging the road from side to side. They just stood there, minding their own business, having not noticed the small group of students standing about 30 feet away from them.

It had taken them longer than normal to cross the 4 blocks here, due to the zombie hordes, the blocked-off streets, and Harold's condition; yet they still had to try and make it if they could. But now it looked as though they would fail at the last hurdle.

"Oh is there no end?!" wailed Patrick, before he was hushed by Ryan turning on him.

"Keep your damned voice down!" he hissed. "You want every zombie in ear shot to notice us?!"

"Well what do you suggest then, Mr leader?" asked Patrick sarcastically, as Ryan turned away from him and walked away a few steps, holding his baseball bat carefully. He crouched down behind a newspaper box and briefly ran over the options in his head.

_Can't make a run for it…poor Harold's slowly us down too much, make us easy targets. And there's no way we can fight them either: a baseball bat, a frying pan and two kitchen knives won't get us very far against a few dozen zombies…so that just leaves-_

"We go around them," he said aloud, turning back to the group.

"And waste even more time?" scoffed Patrick.

"Well you want to go and try fight your way through all those zombies, Patrick?" asked Ryan, frustrated, pointing his bat towards the undead monsters loitering behind them.

Silence.

"Thought not," said Ryan, turning away in victory, before looking back at Amy and Michelle, both of them glancing left and right nervously, checking for danger. "Amy, this is your home turf, what would be the best way to get to the apartments?" Amy looked up suddenly, and looked back and forth a few times, seemingly surprised that Ryan was talking to her.

"Um…you go down that alleyway there, it leads to the path under the old bridge," she stated, pointing to an opening about 15 feet away from where they were stood; one that Ryan hadn't even noticed until she'd pointed it out. "That should take us up on the other side of the building."

"Is it safe though?" asked Michelle. "Just the state Harold's in, we can't afford to run into any more zombies." Ryan cast a glance over to Harold now, whose eyes were fully closed, but he was still breathing, just very slowly. Ryan doubted he'd last much longer.

"People barely use that route, so it should be empty-"

"We can't afford to wait around any longer though," stated Ryan. "Safe or not, it's better than going through all those freaks."

"He's right," said Miles, lifting Harold a bit further off of the ground. "We can't waste anymore time."

"Fucking marvellous," muttered Patrick, but he went unheard.

"Right let's go-" said Ryan, turning round, but his words caught in his mouth when he saw the crowd.

A teenage girl, about 16, stood at the very edge of the crowd of undead, watching the group with empty eyes. Her blue vest top was barely hanging on, a massive bite wound on her shoulder, her denim skirt smeared with blood and gore. She took a shaky step towards them and groaned loudly, which prompted a few more zombies to turn around and begin their very slow approach.

"We gotta go, now!" yelled Ryan, as the swarm of zombies started to gravitate towards the students one by one, alerted by their fellow zombie's moans.

"Won't argue with you on that!" gasped Patrick, as he and Miles shuffled forward, dragging Harold with them.

Tears were choking Michelle's eyes as she moved, clutching onto Amy's hand for grim death. Within seconds, Miles and Patrick reached the opening, pulling Harold down it, and Ryan stood at the entrance, urging the girls to hurry up. Once they had gone, he looked at the approaching zombies for a little while, and then he hurried after the others himself, their footsteps echoing down the enclosed space.

* * *

_This is insane: the whole city's tearing itself apart._

Lenny sprinted down the sidewalk of Bake Street, his shotgun clenched tightly to his chest. All around, pandemonium ensued: countless screaming citizens ran to and fro, many of them lugging heavy cases full of clothes and other essential items, throwing them into and on top of their cars, in a desperate bid to escape the city. People took no heed of him, even as he barged past a few of them, their self-preservation instinct working on overdrive. Some people carried screaming children with them, hastily throwing open the car doors and bungling their offspring inside.

But the mad dash to get out of the city was only making things worse. The far end of the street was just a jumble of stationary cars, taking up the entire width of the road, as several cars had tried to fit through a junction only wide enough for two lines of traffic. Some cars were actually mounted up on the sidewalk, and car horns blared out, mixed among the constant screams and curses of the vehicle occupants. It was utter deadlock. Lenny watched as one man, driving a huge red SUV, suddenly slammed into reverse for a few yards, and then hit the throttle, roaring forward and literally smashing a route through the deadlock, flipping a grey sedan onto its rook. Screams could be heard from inside the car, but the SUV driver paid no heed as he stepped on the gas and accelerated away, a few more cars pushing through the gap he had created.

_Stupid bastard!_

Lenny reached a car parked across the sidewalk and vaulted over the hood in one swift movement, ignoring the slumped male bodies inside. He couldn't slow down, he had to get home, get back to his family, to make sure they were all right. He couldn't afford to waste time helping every single person he came across, even if it went against everything he stood for as a police officer. His own family were the priority now.

He heard the sound of breaking glass and shuddered to a halt, looking across the street from where he was. He saw a group of young men running away from the shattered front display glass of an electronics store, carrying an expensive TV set between them. Behind them came two more, each hefting a speaker almost as tall as they were. Lenny watched them with a degree of disgust.

_There's a zombie invasion and some people only care about helping themselves!_

He heard laughing and turned his head to see three more would-be looters throwing a trash can through the final remaining window of the store, before discussing loudly with one another what exactly they would take.

"Let's get one of those 42 inches!" said a blonde man loudly.

"No, take two!" said his companion.

"That's just being greedy," retorted the first one. "Besides, theres only three of us left, we couldn't possibly carry two of those beasts between us!"

"Screw that, just take a small set each," said the third and final man, already picking up a small 12 inch TV set. "Quantity over quality, that's what daddy always said." The three friends laughed loudly, before they were all silenced by the noise that came from out the blue.

BOOM!

There was the sound of a shotgun being fired, and one of the huge TV sets exploded in a shower of glass and circuitry, the three looters nearly jumping out of their skin and looking around to be confronted by a blood-stained R.P.D officer, standing about 10 feet away and clutching a smoking shotgun.

"If you know what's good for you, you'll drop that TV and get the hell out of here!" growled Lenny Bristol, pumping his shotgun for good measure.

The small TV set fell to the ground, and the three looters took off, sprinting after their friends as fast as their legs would carry them. Lenny watched them go, smirking.

_Scumbags…_

A piercing female scream forced him to look back the way he had come, and beyond all of the parked vehicles and human crowds, he could see the line of zombies moving in, moaning hungrily: he guessed it was what was left of the ones that had attacked the barricade on Main Street, and they had just swept on, through the rest of the city if they could.

Jeff's dying scream rang through his head for a brief moment, as did the image of him being ripped apart. Lenny shook his head and backed away a slight distance.

_No…I gotta get home. Anna…Lewis…_

He turned on his heel and sprinted away down the street, ignoring the screams from behind him.

* * *

Lewis Bristol looked out the front window of his home, watching the strange man outside wrestling with Mr Foster, the nice man next door. He was holding onto the older man's shoulders, and his mouth seemed to be touching Mr Foster's neck, who struggled like mad to try and break free.

He had seen his parents do something similar a few times, and the first time, his embarassed father had explained that what they were doing was something that adults did to show that they liked each other very much. So did this strange man like Mr Foster a lot then?

"Mummy," he asked innocently, "why does that man like Mr Foster a lot?" His mother suddenly appeared next to him, and looked outside to see the scene, her eyes wide.

Then the man moved his head away, and something bright red sprayed out of Mr Foster's neck, the neighbour's pained scream being heard even through the glass. Upon seeing this, his mother turned pale and suddenly moved forward, drawing the blinds so the scene disappeared from Lewis' view. She then quickly turned and embraced her son, tears starting to form in her eyes.

"Don't look Lewis," she sobbed. "Don't look baby."

"Then what was that man doing?" asked Lewis, still oblivious to the true extent of what had just happened.

"That was a bad man, Lewis," his mother whispered, looking him in the eye. "You know the bad men that your daddy goes away to take care of?"

The boy nodded, after a few moments of thought.

"Well that was a _very _bad man, Lewis," she explained. "He was hurting Mr Foster, and he wants to hurt us too."

"Why do they want to hurt us?" asked the child.

"Because they just do Lewis, they just do," his mother replied, on the verge of breaking down in tears by now, unable to provide a better answer to her child. "You need to stay quiet Lewis, quiet as you can."

"What about daddy?" asked Lewis, looking up, oblivious to the rather disturbing sounds coming from outside the house. His mother looked down at him, her words catching in her throat.

_What about daddy? Is he still alive? Is he on his way? Or did those crazy people kill him, just like they killed Mr Foster just now? Or was-_

She shook her head, clearing away the myriad of thoughts. Her husband had promised that he would come and find them, and he always kept his promises. If she focused on that point, that would be good enough for her.

"Daddy's coming to save us, don't you worry son," she sad with a forced smile. "He always keeps his promises. But for the meantime, please keep your voice down, sweety." Lewis just nodded in confirmation, as the moans sounded outside again, along with another, more morbid sound, from just near their front door: the sound of flesh being torn from the bone.

Suddenly, Sasha was at the door, barking and growling out at the crazy people lurking outside, and the damned moaning that filtered through. Anna turned towards the animal, eyes wide in fright.

"Sasha! Come here now!" she said firmly, and immediately the dog scampered over to her, whining as it nuzzled its way into the mother and son holding onto one another for fear of what would happen next. "That's a good girl," she whispered, stroking the dog's fur before taking a hold of her bright red collar. "That's a good girl-"

The door rattled in its frame, and a hollow moan sounded. Sasha started barking again. Anna Bristol squeezed her eyes shut and started to pray to whatever God was listening, holding onto her son for dear life.

* * *

"Name please."

"Richard Smart," replied the middle-aged blonde man, holding a hand to his bandaged head. Greene quickly scrawled the man's name down on the clipboard he held. It was a miracle he had even heard him speak over the cacophony of voices surrounding both of them.

"Are you with anyone else?" the corporal asked.

"My wife, Angela," Richard replied, indicating the sleeping woman lying on the cot just next to him. "She's fine, but she's diabetic and it's been a while since she last had her injection-"

"Get an injector pen and some insulin for this woman, now," barked Greene, turning to one of the other medics stood just behind him.

"Roger," the medic snapped, putting down the IV pack he held and turning away and running off somewhere, pushing through the crowd of people that had gathered.

"Oh thank you so much," said Mr Smart, but Greene had already moved on to the next person in line, a young woman with dark blonde hair, clutching her arms to herself and rocking back and forth, staring off into the distance.

"Name please," the corporal asked, for what seemed like the 1,000th time today. But he had to keep himself busy, getting a record of all survivors extracted from the city, to take his mind off that phone call from before.

It still freaked him out, even now. That phone call from before, how that man knew so much about him, about his life, his problems: and had offered him a way out. The whole thing stank, as far as he felt, but still he didn't have much choice really. If he didn't raise that $10,000 by the end of the week then his legs would get broken: or worse, he could end up washed up on the riverside somewhere with a bullet in his head. Neither option was very appealing. The man's closing words still hung over his head like a lead weight.

"_Excellent choice Corporal. Now, all I need you to do is to keep an eye on the situation with the military efforts to keep the city quarantined, and let me know of any sudden developments that arise."_

"_Such as?" inquired Tobias._

"_I'm sure you'll know what I mean shortly," replied Lindeman, making Tobias feel a bit more uncomfortable. "Now I must go. If you need to contact me, then you do so on that very cell phone, but I may not answer straight away, just for your information."_

And then he was gone, without even a goodbye, leaving the Corporal wondering just exactly what he had let himself in for. He had to conceal his phone quickly though, as Lieutenant Fletcher reappeared to ask Tobias for an update on the refugees, which the Corporal swiftly gave, after recovering from the initial surprise. Hopefully the officer didn't suspect anything.

He found himself looking over his shoulder every now and then, making sure that no-one else was following him or watching him or otherwise; or if the phone was to ring again suddenly. How was he meant to explain something like that to one of his colleagues, or even his commanding officer? It would likely end with his dismissal and possible arrest. But Lindeman never mentioned that he would call Tobias himself, so perhaps he would be free from that danger.

But in the meantime, he still had all of these people to deal with: wasted, terrified-looking people in droves, and more of them were coming back with each helicopter recon trip that headed out. And then there were the people trying to get into Raccoon City, and a line of cars and other vehicles were starting to gather on the road, a crowd of protesting civilians trying to get through as a line of soldiers held them back. But through all of this, he still had a job to do.

"Name please," he asked, yet again. This man was in his mid 50s, his hair starting to recede, holding a cloth to the side of his head.

"Albert Jefferson," the man replied, and Tobias was halfway through writing his name down when the man spoke up again. "When are you going to let us back into the city? My family are still back there!"

"I'm afraid we're not letting anyone back in sir," replied Greene. "You'd only be putting yourself in more danger if you did."

The man scoffed. "Screw that, I know fine well what danger there is back there!" he yelled, his voice drawing the attention of a few other people around them. "I saw what happened to those people, just before your friends cut them down like wheat!"

"I'm sorry sir, but you're still not going back inside that city," said Tobias, a little more forcefully. "There's no negotiating either way, and if you do try anything they you'd likely be arrested on the spot. Now, are you with anyone else at all?" That question was Tobias' way of saying 'that's the end of that argument'. Albert glared at him for a few seconds before he replied.

"No, I'm by myself," he answered. "Of course, I do have a daughter and a wife as well, but they're still back in that city, as I've already told you, you goddamn jarhead!"

"I'm sorry Mr Jefferson," said Tobias, his patience starting to wear thin, "but frankly, I have about another hundred people here who are in the exact same boat as you. They're scared, they're worried for their relatives and loved ones; as any person would be. Now they all have the same questions as you do, but the answer will always be the same."

"You can't keep us here," retorted Albert.

"They can," said Tobias, pointing towards the blocked off road towards Raccoon City, where a trio of armed soldiers in gas masks stood watch behind the barbed wire and wooden barricades, facing down a small group of people who had already gathered on the opposite side of the barrier, shouting and jeering. "Trust me sir, if you just sit tight we'll have more information for you sometime soon."

Albert opened his mouth to say something else, but he was interrupted by a sudden commotion as a look-out peering through a set of binoculars suddenly called out, "We have incoming air traffic!"

Tobias looked up, and then made his way over quickly. The look-out turned back towards him as he heard him approaching. "Over there! Half a click away!" he said, pointing to some grey dots he could see in the distance. Tobias took the binoculars from the look out and peered through them at the point in the distance, as a few more soldiers came along to have a closer look at what was going on.

Through the visors, Tobias saw at least three of them: huge grey transport choppers, likely MH-53 'Pave Lows', used for troop transport. They were all flying in formation, and none of them had any visible insignia or markings which showed which regiment or group they were attached to, which was peculiar in itself, but Tobias did make out one unusual feature on every vehicle.

The large red and white octagon painted on the side of each chopper: the logo of the Umbrella Corporation.

"Umbrella?" he whispered, lowering the binoculars, just as Lieutenant Fletcher appeared next to him.

"Tobias?" he asked, and the Corporal just passed the viewer straight to his superior, who watched the choppers pass by himself, heading straight for the city limits. "What the hell are they thinking?!" he asked aloud, as he turned his head to watch them go.

"They've got the Umbrella insignia on them sir," stated Tobias. "No idea why though." Fletcher seemed to ignore him as he tossed the binoculars aside and turned to one of the other troops standing near to him.

"Get on the horn now," he barked. "Try and contact those pilots, and ask them why the hell they're flying into restricted airspace!"

"Yes sir!" replied the trooper, running off as fast as his legs could take him. In the meantime, Fletcher and Tobias watched as the choppers disappeared off into the distance.

"What the hell are they up to?" whispered the Lieutenant. Standing behind him, Tobias was thinking the same thing himself, though he turned away so the others couldn't see the uncertainty in his face.

_Could this have something to do with that Lindeman guy who called me before? It seems like a __coincidence…I'll have to ask about that sometime, if I ever get a spare moment amongst all this madness. This is going to be a very long day…

* * *

_

"This is chopper delta, preparing to drop-off at Area E-5970, over."

"Roger that chopper delta, drop off your cargo and pull back to staging point Alpha."

"Roger that command."

The transport helicopter screamed over the streets of Raccoon City, as its pilot relayed the current position to command. The two other choppers peeled away and headed to other areas of the city, as the pilot suddenly started to pick up some incoming radio traffic.

"Uh, command, we got unknowns trying to make contact, over," said the pilot, his voice calm and passive.

"Roger that chopper delta, maintain radio silence, over," crackled back the voice of command.

"Roger that," said the pilot, and then all was quiet.

Hanging out of the side hatch of the chopper, Lieutenant Nicholas Johnson watched the streets as they rushed by below. He was a thick-set African American, in his mid thirties, complete with dark eyes and a firm expression on his face. He wore an olive green shirt underneath a matt black tactical combat vest, beige coloured fatigue pants with black kneepads, and heavy black combat boots. To complete his look, he wore an olive green beret perched on his head, his sign of leadership within the unit. In his hands he carried an M4A1 assault rifle, modified with a top-mounted holographic sight, and also had a SIG-Pro handgun holstered at his thigh. The vest pockets carried a fair amount of ammunition for both weapons, and several M67 fragmentation grenades too.

He was a platoon leader in the Umbrella Biohazard Countermeasure Service, a paramilitary group founded by the Umbrella Corporation, specialising in 'cleaning up' after the messes made by their employers. They were mercenaries, hired hands ostensibly, and as a result they were never told the full story behind each of their missions. Although most of the current serving members of the regiment were American, other nationalities and ethnicities were present within the ranks of the U.B.C.S: men from all over the world in fact, and every man had a small flag showing their country's national flag sewn into the left shoulder.

They were also virtually unknown to most Umbrella employees, and had been successful in every mission they had partaken in beforehand, although the unit's mortality rate was very high. As a result, most of the U.B.C.S were comprised of convicted war criminals and retired former soldiers; people no-one would miss if something happened to them.

Johnson was part of the former: serving with distinction in the Gulf War, he had found himself arrested for black marketing when he approached his sergeant regarding the fact his comrades were torturing Iraqi prisoners of war; something his sergeant was actually complicit in. In effect he was screwed over, and within a few months of serving his sentence he found himself approached by a pair of men from Umbrella, offering him a place within the U.B.C.S. And naturally he accepted, preferring not to spend the rest of his life in military prison. Within a few months of him starting with the regiment, he found himself promoted to squad leader. Since then, the men under his command came to respect him. Many said they would follow him into the mouth of hell itself.

He stepped back into the chopper and looked out among the 19 other faces in the hold, all of them dressed in the same manner as he was. Most of these men were his 'inner circle', his best and most trusted men, and they had fought alongside him in over a dozen missions. They were all dressed in the same attire, and most of them carried the same weapon load out: M4A1's with SIG-Pro handguns as a backup and frag grenades, but a few carried PSG-1 sniper rifles or S.P.A.S 12 shotguns.

He looked out over their faces, recalling the deeds and general character of each man.

Sat nearest to him was a young Caucasian man with mid-length blonde hair: Taylor Drecker, the unit's dedicated scout and a former Green Beret. His skills as a scout and his perception of his surroundings were almost uncanny, and to top it off, his skills in both armed and unarmed combat were considerable. Attached to the front of his tactical vest were several plastic sheaths containing small one-use throwing knives, which Taylor always carried with him. The man took a deep breath and pulled a green beanie hat on over his head.

Further away was sat Joel Setzer, one of the unit's heavy weapon troopers. He cradled an M249 light machine gun in his hands, and he was currently checking the weapon's ammunition over, making sure the bullet chain would be able to feed through without jamming. He had short brown hair and a powerful physique, his shoulders almost too wide to fit in the seat he was in. He glanced up, and when he saw the Lieutenant watching him, gave a quick nod and a wink, causing Johnson to smile.

Opposite Joel was the group's best sniper, Robert Devlan. A former Delta Force member, no-one knew what it was he did to end up here in the U.B.C.S, as he never spoke about his past. He was a rather lanky figure with black hair styled in a buzz-cut, armed with a heavily-modified M4A1 that acted as a sniper rifle, complete with a telescopic sight, modified box-magazine and a shoulder-stock salvaged from a PSG-1, to make it more comfortable for him to use. Despite the weapon's rather unusual appearance, he could use it to hollow out small wooden discs at 500 yards and more. He was sat in between the other two snipers in the unit, Tom Fosker and Frederick Ackerman, both carrying the standard PSG-1 rifles.

Then there was the unit's designated medic, William Daniels, born in the United Kingdom and a former member of the SAS. His blue eyes showed a slight trace of unease, as he ran a hand over his clean-shaven face, while also digging through his medical kit to see if anything was missing. Of particular note where the couple dozen vials filled with light purple liquid: T-Virus antibodies, designed to be taken to provide a better immunity against infection from the virus, and he guessed a few of those would be used today.

Johnson looked over the other faces quickly: shotgunner Daryl Benson, demolitions expert Lee Myung, second-in-command Jonathan Price, point man Richard Biel: and could see that most of them had that fearful look on their face, and he didn't blame them. This was easily the largest operation they had been deployed to, and the Lieutenant made sure that they were all aware that the prospects of coming back home alive were slim. After all, an estimated half of Raccoon City's population had been exposed to the T-Virus, and uncomfirmed reports stated other B. were expected to be encountered as well.

He decided it was time for a pre-drop pep talk. "OK ladies, listen up!" he said, and everyone there looked up to face him without delay.

"Now I'm sure you've all heard what they've been saying back at base," he explained, looking over every face before him. "But I've never lied to you guys, and I'm not about to start now. So all I'll say is that there's a chance none of us will return from this mission."

There was a grim silence as his men took this information in, but most of them just looked away silently. Due to the high mortality rate within the regiment, every U.B.C.S soldier expected to die on every mission they were sent on, but this wasn't just any other mission.

"I'm saying this because Raccoon City has been infected to the T-Virus," he continued, stating the basic facts. "This is the first time in the corporation's history that something of this scale has occurred, and they're sending us right into the heart of this shit storm."

"Wouldn't have it any other way," growled someone in the back, and a few voices rose up in agreement. Johnson let the voices go quiet before he continued.

"OK guys, this is a simple search and rescue mission; get in, get the people, and get out," said the Lieutenant. "Are you all aware of the designated extraction points?"

A chorus of affirmatives went up.

"Excellent," said Johnson. "Now I know we've done these missions time and time again, but this is on a much larger scale, within an environment we're not used to. Remember to take it slowly, watch your backs, check your corners, and most important of all- keep an eye on the man next to you."

"Shouldn't be too hard with Joel," joked Benson, "you could see him coming a mile off, all the noise he makes."

"Screw you Daryl," retorted the heavy gunner, and half of the mercs there burst out in laughter, Johnson among them.

"2 minutes!" yelled the pilot suddenly, indicating that they were close to their designated drop-off point.

"Allright, time to get ready ladies," ordered the Lieutenant, prompting his men to stand up and reach for their steel clips, ready to fast-rope down. "When we touch down, I want sniper teams to cover the rooftops. The rest of you, clear out the apartments floor by floor, then maintain a firing point at street level. Taylor?"

"Yeah boss?" asked the scout, using the name that most of the unit referred to him by.

"You got the city plans there with you?"

"Sure do, boss," replied Taylor, holding up a small PDA device that he would always download building or street maps onto for each of their missions, so they had a good idea of what the terrain they would face would be like.

"Good," replied Johnson. "Once we have a fire point set up we can start to plan our next course of action."

"Hey Nick," yelled Joel, starting to rise to his feet now, his M249 slung around his back so as to not get in the way.

"Yes Joel?" asked the Lieutenant, not the last bothered by the way the heavy gunner had used his informal nickname. But he wasn't the only one who always called him that name.

"We got any beers in for when this missions over?" Joel then asked with a laugh, and a few others joined him. Nick allowed himself a smile before he gave his reply.

"Of course I got the beers in- there's enough for everyone back at home base!"

Several cheers rose up, their spirits lifted.

_That's good, _thought Nick to himself. _They'll need to keep their spirits up, for what we're about to be dropped into. _

"Sixty seconds!" yelled the pilot.

"Hook up!" ordered Nick, and his men hooked themselves onto the steel rails that ran along the top of the chopper fuselage, the metallic sound of them clipping on ringing through their ears.

"Open the side doors!" the Lieutenant then ordered, and Joel and Taylor took a hold of the large doors on each side of the fuselage, pulling the huge steel doors open, the breeze whipping through the fuselage and nearly bowling a few of Nick's men off of their feet.

"Steady," said Devlan quietly, as he put a hand out to stop Ackerman from falling over the man in front of him. Near to them, a few of the soldiers peered out of the side doors, looking down at the scenes that unfolded beneath them.

They passed over one street, and they saw the small group of people run screaming down the road, being pursued by a crowd of shambling figures, nearly fifty in all. They quickly passed by that scene, and came onto another street, where a handful of uniformed officers and S.W.A.T personnel from the Raccoon Police Department manned a small barricade, firing into a wall of approaching zombies, doing little to thin their numbers. One of the officers fired a grenade into the crowd, and a small blossom of flame threw several bodies into the air. Moving on, the next small street was practically choked with zombies, that clustered around a destroyed store front, their haunting moans reaching up to the chopper they were travelling in.

"My God," whispered Lee Myung, shaking his head, "what have they sent us into?"

"Looks like the mouth of hell down there," said Daniels simply, and the others were inclined to agree with him.

"Keep it together, people!" cried Nick, as he moved forward to right next to the open door and clipped himself on, ready to be the first to make the drop when the time came. "We're too far along to back out now!"

"Thirty seconds!" yelled the pilot again.

"Oh god," muttered one of the men near to the back, clutching a small golden cross in his fingers. "Oh god, I can't do this…"

"You'll have to do this," said the man standing behind him, a Russian man with short red hair and a scar on his left cheek. "Because if you don't go I'll never get off this chopper, comrade." Some of the other men laughed quietly, which did something to lift the other man's spirits.

The chopper swung around suddenly, leaving the path down to an anonymous apartment building rooftop below them, bare of any defining features, save for a single water tower.

"Drop ropes!" ordered Nick, and immediately a pair of thick nylon ropes were thrown out of each side of the helicopter, spiralling down towards the roof before coming to a stop just a couple of inches from the touch down point. The ropes were attached to the steel rails they were all clipped onto, allowing them to easily fast-rope down to the rooftop.

"Fifteen seconds!" cried the pilot.

"OK, rope down in pairs, 5 seconds between each pair!" yelled Nick. "Remember what you all learned, because it'll come in useful now! If we get separated, look for me or Sergeant Price!"

"Good luck, boss!" yelled Joel, as he prepared himself for the descent.

"I make my own luck, Joel," smiled Nick back in response, gripping onto the nylon rope and looping it around his body to act as some sort of support. Then he faced away so his back was facing out into thin air, and counted down the remaining time that was left.

"Go! Go! Go!" cried the pilot.

Nick held his breath and pushed away from the chopper, flying out into oblivion, before the rope caught his weight, and he found himself hurtling towards the rooftop at top speed, the chopper rapidly moving away from him. Within a couple of seconds, his boots kissed the pebble-dashed surface, and he ripped his steel clip free, in time for another body to come zipping down towards him.

* * *

Elsewhere within the city, on the outskirts of the Cider District, Captain Mercer of the U.B.C.S touched down in an abandoned parking lot, unclipping himself from the nylon rope and taking up a crouched firing position next to a parked blue sedan. He squinted through the dust thrown up by the whirring helicopter blades, aiming his M4A1 towards the open entrance into the lot, as he heard the boots of his comrades touching down just behind him, and the shouts as they took up their own defensive posts.

He was nervous as hell, and for very good reason. He had been placed in command of Charlie platoon after the death of its previous commander, Captain Clarke, when a Hunter bio-weapon took his head off in a single slash. Mercer had no clue about being a military leader, but clearly high command thought he did, and appointed him as platoon leader. Either that or they simply picked his name out of the hat.

"So what next, oh fearless leader?" asked a sarcastic voice with a trace of a German accent from next to him. Mercer turned to face Sergeant Hans Dietrich, a stocky man with light green eyes, brown hair and considerable bags under his eyes. A small German flag was stitched onto his left shoulder, indicative of the German regiment he fought for before being honourably discharged and snapped up for the U.B.C.S. He was meant to be some kind of hero in his old company, but in the U.B.C.S he was somewhat short-tempered and cranky, but the men listened to him…probably because of the fact he was sergeant more than anything else. And Mercer knew he had to rely on the sergeants if he was to get them all through this mess.

Mercer looked back as the remainder of the troops under his command formed up in a circular formation within the parking lot, covering all angles as the ropes from the chopper were brought back up, and then it was turning away and flying off towards the horizon, where a dozen pillars of smoke rose from a city tearing itself apart.

"OK," started Captain Mercer, "Dietrich, take your men and secure that building over the road," he ordered, pointing towards the huge brick warehouse they could see just across from where they were assembled. The sign outside the building read 'Fitch Cider Ltd'. This part of the city earned its name from the fact that quite a few large businesses were based around the brewing of cider.

"Sir," replied the sergeant.

"Archer," then said Mercer, turning towards a lanky man with dark skin and beady eyes. "Take your men and set up fire positions in the street and around the building, if you see any contacts, remember to conserve your ammunition: no full auto action, people."

"Yessir," said Archer already directing his men to move out, and in groups of four they fanned out, crossing the street in crouched positions, their weapons scanning for any threats, before they started to bed in, taking cover behind fences, parked cars and piles of random scrap. As they did, Dietrich bought his men forward and pushed through the main double doors into the warehouse. As they entered, the German could see that the place had long been abandoned as it was totally gutted: heavy machinery ripped out of place, the assembly lines gone, and empty cider barrels still clogging up a few corners.

"The place is empty, sir," reported back Dietrich. "Perhaps this would be a good place to hold ground for a while as we search for survivors?"

"Noted," replied the captain, looking around nervously as he stood just inside the building entrance. Dietrich and his men watched the young man over for a while, before the German suddenly walked over towards him, leaning forward and whispering something into his ear in a threatening manner.

"I swear to God, if you fuck up and get any of my men killed, I will hunt you down and gut you like a pig."

And with that, he marched back towards his men, barking out orders for them to start setting the place up for the inevitable influx of civilians, while Mercer just stood in place, his face starting to go pale. This was just great, he reckoned. It was bad enough this was his first mission with some form of responsibility, but now Dietrich was threatening him for no good reason, as if he was under enough pressure already.

He continued to stand in place just as Sergeant Archer then reappeared next to him.

"Sir?" he asked, and Mercer turned to him suddenly. "We've bedded down outside the building, good line of sight down both sides of the street, could hold the bastards off for a good while if they came through."

"Good, good," answered Mercer, pulling out a sheet of paper showing the list of frequencies to the other units within the U.B.C.S. He traced his finger down to find Lieutenant Whyte's frequency. "Get me a radio now," he then ordered.

"Sir," barked Archer moving away, and then returning with his signals specialist, a bulky communications set hanging on his back. The sergeant passed the mouth piece to Mercer, who immediately gave the frequency he wanted, and the sergeant keyed the frequency in. There were a few seconds of static, before he heard the crackly voice come through.

"This is Whyte," said a voice with a hint of Texan accent. "How you doing', Mercer you lucky bastard?"

"Whyte, I'm sending you our current co-ordinates," replied Mercer, getting down to business and ignoring Whyte's somewhat bitter remark at the young man's promotion. "Whereabouts are you?"

"We're about half a click north of your current position, in the Cider District," replied Whyte blankly.

"What's the situation look like over there?" asked Mercer.

"Well the whole place has gone to shit, to be honest," replied Whyte, and in the background Mercer could hear shouting and a few bursts of random gunfire. "Streets are blocked off, half the town's on fire, no sign of the police anywhere: but it sounds like some people are still fighting back against the zombies."

"Encountered any resistance?" asked Mercer.

"Yes, but nothing my boys couldn't handle," replied Whyte, sounding a little pleased with himself.

"OK Whyte, I need you to do a clean sweep of that general area and then to converge upon our location," ordered Mercer, rubbing his forehead. "We're holding an old cider warehouse called 'Fitch Cider Ltd'. You can't miss it, its down on-"

"Mina Street," said a nearby merc, answering for his captain.

-"Mina Street," finished Mercer.

"Roger that, Captain," replied Whyte, just as Mercer heard him spit onto the ground, an awful habit that he had. "Rules of engagement?" he then asked, as though he had to be told. To be honest, it sounded as though he were just saying it to entertain Mercer.

"Engage on sight, but conserve your ammo," answered Mercer. "This is likely to be a long mission."

"Roger that, Captain."

"I'll be in touch if anything changes," said Mercer, and then the line was cut. Mercer passed the radio back to the merc that was handling the comms equipment. Just as he did, he heard someone shouting outside.

"Contacts! Approaching from down the road!" The various mercs looked up, but none of them batted an eyelid, as they had grown all too accustomed to this in their careers. But a few of the younger faces started to show sheer terror, this being their first true mission with the regiment.

Mercer took one look at their faces and then dashed outside; trying not to show the same fear they showed him. He was their leader; he couldn't be shown to fear being their leader, or they would all die for sure.

Mercer hunkered down next to Sergeant Archer, observing the line of zombies that approached them from down the street. He could hear their hollow moaning even from here, but he maintained his composure, amongst the men under his command. He took a pair of binoculars out of his tactical vest pockets and peered through them, at the approaching crowd. He guessed their must've been at least 50 of them, and he could see all kinds of people among the throng: men, women; even a few children. All were dressed differently too, but their pale skin and empty eyes unified them all.

"OK, wait for them to get into effective range," ordered Mercer, putting the binoculars away. He looked at Archer as if to reaffirm his order, and the sergeant just nodded, at least showing his support for the new captain, unlike Dietrich. Just then, the main doors opened and a few of the German's men stepped outside, clutching their weapons.

"The sarge says there's a back door in this place, could be useful for a retreat if needed," one of them said flatly.

"Good, keep that route covered and clear," ordered Mercer, and a couple of the men retreated back inside, obviously intending to pass the order on. But the one who had spoken remained behind, a rather handsome young man with a scar over his left eye and his hair in a black Mohawk style.

"You need any help out here, sir?" he asked.

"We may do," answered Mercer. "Just keep on your toes, just in case. The man nodded, satisfied, and disappeared back inside the building. Mercer turned back towards the approaching zombies, to see they were within 300 yards of their position now, within effective range.

"OK guys, you can ventilate them now," Mercer said calmly. Archer smiled lightly as he raised his rifle up to eye level from his position behind a parked car, along with the rest of his squad.

"Open fire!" he yelled.

* * *

CRASH!

The door into the 3rd floor corridor of the apartment building crashed open, and immediately the two zombies standing idly in the hall swung round to face the commotion. One of them was a young brunette woman in a white shirt and black jeans, her neck ripped open by her killer, the elderly man standing just behind her. Wire-framed spectacles barely concealed his empty, glassy eyes, and fresh gore dripped down the front of his chin and smeared all over the grey cardigan he wore.

RATATAT!

An M4 rifle roared within the narrow corridor, and then the zombies fell to the ground, their skulls smashed open like ripe watermelons.

"Clear!" barked Taylor Drecker, moving forward and allowing his comrades to file through behind him. Most of the squad spread, out, kicking open random apartment doors and checking them for any occupants. The group's sniper contingent, comprised of Robert Devlan and three other members of Delta Platoon, had been left behind, dropped off on nearby rooftops as to provide cover for the unit once they exited out onto the street.

"Keep it nice and tight, people!" ordered Nick as he marched down the corridor, followed by Taylor and Benson. Shouts of 'clear' came back in a steady rhythm as his men scoured through the building for any sign of life, but it looked as though the building had already been evacuated.

Benson booted open a door near the end of this stretch of hallway, nosing his S.P.A.S 12 inside. He saw a pair of figures at the far side of the apartment: a middle-aged man sat in an old chair, and crouched in front of him was a young man, wearing a blue t-shirt and black pants along with silver sneakers, his head apparently buried in the older man's chest. They were both blonde-haired, so he guessed they were father and son, embracing one another throughout all of the madness going on. But judging by the man's pained expression, Benson knew better.

The young man drew his head away, exposing the bloody wound in the older man's torso, and he turned towards Benson, his teeth covered in bright crimson and his skin covered in various sores and openings. The man let off an empty moan as he stared at the U.B.C.S merc.

BOOM!

Benson pulled the trigger and the man's head erupted into a crimson geyser.

"Is it clear?" asked someone behind him.

"It is now," replied Benson quietly as he pulled the door shut.

Within 5 minutes Delta Platoon had cleared this floor and prepared to descend to the second floor. Three members gathered around the doorway and after a countdown to three, the first man booted it wide open and allowed his two companions to file through, each one aiming upstairs and downstairs respectively.

"Clear!" came the shout, and then the rest of the unit filed through, descending the stairs in a textbook manoeuvre. Nick advanced from just behind Taylor, who had taken point, as normal. Behind him by several places was Sergeant Jonathan Price, Nick's second-in-command. Price had served within the Army Rangers originally, serving in the Gulf War, the same as Nick did, although they were both posted to different parts of the country. Unlike most of the U.B.C.S, Price didn't have a criminal record: rather, he had retired from military service at one point, and had been tempted back by an offer from Umbrella. To be fair, he was one of the more honourable men within their ranks, considering half of the regiment were either murderers, rapists, or worse.

"Price, take half of the men and cover the second floor, the rest of you, with me!" barked Nick as they reached the second floor entrance.

"Sir!" shouted Price back, and immediately he disappeared through the door, taking 7 others with him. Nick kept on going though, descending the final flight of steps even as they heard the few odd bursts of gunfire as Price and his men cleared house.

The lower stairwell was in view now, and a lone zombie loitered with its back to them. He didn't have a good chance to take in its general appearance before Taylor put a single shot through the back of its skull, splattering blood and brain matter across the blue-painted door in front of him. Nick only regarded the body for a brief moment as Taylor kicked the door open and ushered through, aiming his rifle down the hall as his comrades caught up to him.

The Lieutenant pushed through the doorway and took up a kneeling stance to the right, allowing his men to come through behind him and take up their own positions, leaving two lines of guns aiming forwards. He could see the building lobby at the far end of the passage, and already he could see a handful of zombies starting to advance towards the U.B.C.S, arms outstretched. At the front of the group was a tall dark-haired man, his green shirt ripped off at the collar, part of his side eaten away.

Nick took a breath and set his sights over the man's face, giving the order to fire.

"Light 'em up!"

* * *

Zac had no idea where he was going. He had just about given up heading to the police station, as every road he tried to think of to take was either blocked off by car wrecks or choked with zombies, and he still had no way to defend himself. Also, after he had seen Officer Birch and his colleagues get messily killed a short while ago; he started to lose all hope of anyone fighting back against the zombie invasion. What the hell could you do when the enemy you were fighting wouldn't go down after half a clip of bullets to the torso?

So somehow he had ended up on the edge of the Cider District, trying to figure out what the hell to do next. He crouched within the doorway of a record store, just listening to the various sounds around him: mainly it was the constant moans of nearby zombies, but he could also hear the crackling of flame, the screams of unfortunate victims, and even the odd burst of gunfire. He looked around him, peering through the broken front window of the store, seeing the countless records that lay scattered on the floor, but he could see no blood or dead bodies. Perhaps this place had been looted: he had even seen a few looters taking share of a few stores on his way here.

Then he could hear the gunfire again…a lot more rapid than last time. It was constant, and was coming from somewhere close by. Then was a sudden explosion, and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

_What was that?! _

Someone was clearly fighting back against the zombies, and whoever it was had some pretty serious firepower with them. He heard a few more explosions, and he flinched again, pondering his options. Either he could go back and try to find somewhere safe…or he could seek these people out. After all, people with guns meant that he was at least somewhat safe.

He looked both ways down the street, and then made his run for it when he saw that the path was clear. His feet echoed off of the tarmac a she moved, skirting around a car which had wrapped itself around a lamppost, throwing the poor driver head-first against the windscreen into the bargain. He ducked down a nearby alleyway, panting as he forced himself along, not even daring to slow down. His back-pack knocked against him as he ran, but he ignored the sensation, as he had bigger things on his mind.

He exited out onto the adjacent street, and nearly ran headlong into a zombified mailman, the man's blue uniform caked in blood, one of his eyes dangling loose from the socket, swaying like a pendulum as he reached out towards Zac. The man's head had been broken open at some point as well, and blood dribbled down from the obvious wound on his scalp.

_Oh God!_

Zac turned and stumbled away from the creature, even as it moaned after him, and he could see the numerous other zombies standing in the road, minding their own business. A few of them noticed the student standing nearby though and started to approach, dragging their broken and rotting limbs behind them. Zac looked left and right, trying to discern a clear route through the zombies, and he took off again up the street, zoning in on the source of the gunfire.

Zac danced around a blonde woman who was wasting away as she lunged for him, then barged past a tall thin man in a business suit, sending him falling to the tarmac without any struggle. Then he cut through the middle of a trio of zombies, who were all too slow in turning to face him, but he still got a good look into their hollow eyes. At the far end of the street, he could see a raging inferno cutting this road off from the rest of the city, and he could also see the countless zombie corpses lying on the ground too, a sure sign that whoever had been shooting before had come this way.

Then he felt something grab onto his backpack, and he fell, falling flat on his front, bringing his hands up in time to stop him smashing his face off of the ground. He cried out as the air was knocked out of his lungs, but as he tried to move he still felt the force holding him down. He looked over his shoulder and his eyes went wide in horror.

_No! Oh God no!_

A male zombie clung onto his backpack with bony fingers, its pale white orbs staring right into the depths of his soul. The man's face seemed to be practically peeling off of the bone, and his rancid breath washed over Zac's face as he tried to pull himself up towards the student's upper torso area.

"Get off me!" screamed Zac, landing a solid punch in the man's face, but he didn't let go. Instead he just flinched, and Zac could feel the cold, clammy sensation on his knuckles from where he had made contact. The man opened his mouth wide again, and this time Zac could see every gory detail of the zombies blood-stained teeth.

Screaming again, Zac managed to wriggle free from his backpack and scramble to his feet as fast as he could. Behind him, the zombie remained on the ground, clutching onto the backpack it had taken hold of before, clearly too stupid in pursuing after the human that had been wearing the backpack just previously. Zac kept running, rounding the corner he could see, and almost immediately having to come to a sudden halt again.

A man stood before him, dressed in beige pants and what looked like a military-issue black flak vest, and he was aiming some sort of machine gun right towards Zac. He couldn't make out the man's face, as he was too focused on the barrel of the gun before him. His eyes went wide, everything else around him going out of focus, all the sound draining away.

"Don't shoot, I'm not-"

"Get down!" barked the man. Zac didn't need to be told twice, and threw himself face-first to the ground, hands over his head.

RATATAT!

The weapon roared in the man's hands, and Zac's eardrums nearly burst from the intense burst of sound that hit him. As it did, the three zombies that had been stood behind him collapsed to the ground, their heads blown apart. He looked back at them in shock, admiring how their blood ran out of their skulls and across the tarmac, tracing intricate patterns as it went.

Then a strong arm was grabbing onto him and pulling him to his feet unexpectedly. He found himself looking round into the rugged features of a blonde man in his early thirties, his chin marked with a few days worth of stubble and his icy blue eyes seeming to stare into his very soul. Close up Zac saw the man also wore an olive green shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, black fingerless gloves, and also his vest seemed to be overloaded with ammunition and hand grenades as well: he resembled a classic one-man army.

The man tilted his head and opened his mouth. "You OK, kid?" Zac shook his head, taken by surprise, and replied.

"Y-yeah," he said, shakily, looking back towards the dead zombies. "Thanks."

"No sweat," said the man, offering a cheeky wink. "Good thing we found you when we did." As he said that, Zac noticed the other men in the background, all of them dressed in the same manner as the blonde man before him, and all armed in a similar manner. Some of them stood around, scanning for danger, but most of them fired at zombies out of sight, shell casings cascading to the ground. A few of them openly whooped and cheered as they did so. One African-American man tossed a few hand grenades into an open store doorway, before a massive explosion gutted the store, throwing a few zombies high into the air as it did so.

"You people…" Zac said, still somewhat shaken.

"We're here to help you and everyone else," the man said, looking back towards his comrades. "What's your name?"

"Z-ac," the student replied.

"Well Zac, I'm Marvin," replied the blonde man, "Marvin Stokes. You stay close to me, and I'll make sure you don't get hurt, allright?"

"Y-yeah," nodded Zac, before realising something. "Wait, I have friends in the city-"

"-we need to worry about this area first of all," replied Marvin, readying his weapon. "We got a lot of ground to cover and not a whole lot of manpower to do so."

"But-"

"Don't worry, we'll find your friends," said Marvin, and turned away, waving his arm in a circular motion to get the attention of his comrades. As he did, Zac glanced down slightly and saw the design on the back of Marvin's vest. He blinked in surprise.

It was a large octagon, divided into eight segments, four white and four red each, and it was criss-crossed with a pair of swords. Zac, and indeed anyone would recognise that design anywhere: it was the symbol of Umbrella Incorporate, one of the world's largest pharmaceutical companies, and one based within Raccoon City itself. As he looked about, he could see that practically every soldier there had the same emblem on their back.

_Umbrella?_

"Hey, do you work for Umbrella?" asked Zac suddenly, and Marvin turned towards him, as though he were expecting the question.

"In a fashion," he said cryptically, "but there isn't enough time to explain, now," he then added, just as a few other soldiers started to approach him.

"Hey sarge, see you found someone who doesn't want to eat your guts," joked the African-American man, laughing a little as he looked over at Zac.

"One's better than nothing," retorted Marvin, looking back at Zac for a quick moment, then back towards his men. "Is the area clear?"

"Pretty much," replied a short black-haired man with a scar above his upper lip, as he regarded Zac with beady eyes underneath thick eyebrows. "Lot of those bastards around here…looks as though the virus is spreading rapidly."

"Just what we need," growled another man with short ginger hair and a goatee beard.

_Virus? _Thought Zac. _Do they know what's caused all this mess?_

"OK people, we need to head back and clear the next quadrant," ordered Marvin, as the remaining soldiers started to approach the small gathering. "Double-quick time, now!"

* * *

Stephen perked up when he heard the nearby gunfire, and he jumped to his feet and ran to his window, straining his neck to try and see what was going on. After all, the gunfire made a nice change from the constant moaning sounds of the people outside.

_What's that? Is someone fighting back?_He thought to himself, as he threw the curtains aside for a better look.

He could see the crowd in the street below starting to turn towards the far end of the road, out of Stephen's sight, as though alerted by something that was approaching. Then they started falling, in a staggered fashion. Some of them just fell on the spot with no resistance, but some of them were thrown off of their feet, blood streaming from the holes punched through their heads and torsos. Then something small and spherical bounced along the ground and there was a sudden explosion that tossed several of them into the air.

Stephen braced himself as he saw the explosion occur, not expecting something of that magnitude at all. Then even as the smoke was clearing there was even more gunfire, and he started to see the rest of the crazy people falling to the ground like flies. And then he saw them through the smoke: the quintet of men that appeared out of nowhere, running and firing at the people around them. Stephen noted they were dressed like soldiers, in beige fatigue pants, olive green shirts, and black tactical vests that were practically overflowing with ammo, grenades, and other equipment. They shouted to one another as they advanced, and pretty soon they had advanced out of sight, leaving dozens of dead behind them.

_Messy, but efficient…_

They didn't look like any soldiers that Stephen had seen before, but he didn't care either way. Someone was mounting a rescue attempt, so all he had to do was to sit tight and wait for them to come and find him. Since they were right next to the building, he guessed that they would be coming along anytime soon to get him out of there…and kill that goddamn woman pounding on his door.

As if on cue, she started moaning again, and Stephen rolled his eyes, just wanting to get out there and shut her up, though doing so would likely end up with him dead: he had seen how savage those people downstairs were, when they had broken through the front doors and eaten the staff like pieces of meat. He shuddered and pushed the horrific scene to the very back of his mind.

The gunfire continued from outside.

* * *

The street outside the Willow View apartments was like a warzone. Countless bodies littered the tarmac, their blood running in pools down into nearby drains. Most of them were zombies, their bodies shredded and ripped open by countless bullet impacts; some of them mangled way beyond recognition. But there were other bodies there too, of people who were lucky enough not to become zombies, but had still been killed during the chaos that had ensued, their necks ripped open. Most of them had died with eyes wide open, staring deep into the still-living faces of Ryan and his rag-tag band of companions, as they stood in the middle of the road, just observing the general carnage.

"Oh Christ," muttered Miles, as Patrick gagged, suppressing the urge to vomit.

"How many?" asked Michelle.

There were plenty of vehicles parked along the sides of the road as well, clearly abandoned, with doors and trunk left wide open, suitcases and other overflowing bags of luggage left behind in their haste to escape the zombie horde. And there was a thick blanket of brass shell casings left lying about on the tarmac, the sidewalks, on top of bodies: everywhere. Someone had put up a hell of a fight here, that much was certain. Ryan stooped down and picked up a large casing, turning it round in his hand.

"It's still warm," he announced. "So whatever happened here happened fairly recently." He then turned towards the building opposite Willow View Apartments, and saw the open doorway was in the process of collapsing in on itself, warped and twisted from where countless bullets had chipped through the brick and plaster. Countless zombies were piled within the doorway, blasted apart.

"Uh guys, Harold's going!" said Michelle suddenly, and Ryan turned round to see his friends trying to lie the wounded Harold down on the ground. His skin was frightfully pale now, drops of sweat forming on his brow. Ryan ran up next to them and slid down to his knees, his brow furrowing in concern. Miles and Patrick just stood by, the former with his hands held behind his head, but the latter just looked indifferent.

"He's freezing," said Michelle as she felt Harold's brow. "We need to try and warm him up."

"Right, we need to get him inside then," said Ryan out loud. "Right, you two, help carry him into the building: last thing he needs right now is freezing to death out in the open." With some difficultly, Miles and Patrick picked Harold up by his shoulders and legs, and carried him hurriedly into the open doorway of Willow View Apartments, while the girls and Ryan trailed behind. Inside the building, any evidence of chaos markedly absent, although a few nearby doors had been left wide open on their hinges, when the occupants had fled previously. They laid Harold down behind the reception desk, and Miles quickly retrieved a first-aid kit from the cabinet hanging behind, dumping the contents out and looking to see if anything there would be useful. Michelle also recovered a fire blanket from its holder on the wall and threw it over Harold, trying to keep him warm.

"Sorry Ryan, I don't think we can do anything else," said Michelle blankly as Patrick walked a short distance away, shaking his head.

"Well we don't have much choice," he replied simply, before turning to Amy. "Amy, where did your parents live?"

"Apartment number 105," she replied. "Its one of the king-size apartments on this floor…"

"OK, then lets go and check it quickly," he said. "They might have already gone somewhere else, but it wouldn't hurt checking it over just in case. Can you lead the way?"

"Y-yes," she said shakily. "What about-"

"We won't be long," Ryan said, looking at Miles and nodding.

"Sure," he replied, "I'll keep an eye on things here. Don't be too long."

"Yeah, or I'll have to leave you all behind," said Patrick snidely. Michelle gave him a disbelieving glance.

"Patrick, just shut up," said Miles darkly, but Patrick just ignored him, turning away. Ryan and Michelle then headed off, her leading the way, and they disappeared around a nearby corner, their footsteps fading away.

"Hope they get back soon," said Patrick, peering out into the open street.

A short distance away, Amy and Ryan's footsteps echoed down the narrow passage as they moved by several closed apartment doors, Ryan glancing at the numbers briefly as they went. 115, 114, 113, 112…they were getting near to where Amy's parents lived.

"Is it much further?" asked Ryan curiously. He'd never been to this building before; though it looked similar to a few other apartment buildings he had been in before…same general layout of the floors, same drab wallpaper, same coloured-carpets-

"Just a bit further," she said, rounding a corner. "Just at the end of-"

She suddenly stopped in her tracks, let out an abrupt scream, and staggered back, right into Ryan's arms, who stumbled back a couple of paces in surprise, holding onto her as she stifled a few more gasps of terror. He was about to ask her what was the matter, but then he looked down the passage and saw for himself.

A few bodies were piled within the junction of the corridor a few yards away. It was hard to tell, but he counted at least 4 people lying atop of one another, their mouths locked open into eternal screams, eyes rolled into the back of their skulls. There were men and women of various ages, all of them covered in blood and horrific bite wounds on their necks and upper bodies. Looking around the scene, he could see the odd bloody footprint as well, leading back towards the lobby. He continued to stand there, holding onto Amy, as she continued sobbing quietly.

"Where's room 105?" he asked her quietly, not taking his eyes off the pile of corpses lest they come to life.

"At the…at the end of this hall," she said in between sobs. He glanced up, and at the far end of the passage, he could see the plain wooden doo before them, the small brass plate showing '105'. He took a breath, and then leaned forward to whisper into her ear.

"OK, here's what you're going to do," he said softly. "Just keep your eyes closed, and hold onto my hand. I'll lead the way…but whatever you do, do not open your eyes, got it?"

"Got it," she whispered back, and he took her left hand in his carefully. He felt her squeeze his fingers, and he returned the gesture in a reassuring manner.

"Come on," he said, and then he was moving forward in small steps, glancing back to make sure that she was following after him easily. Her eyes were screwed as tight as she could manage, and he felt a weight on his shoulders.

_I gotta protect her…protect her the best I can, more than I could do for Grant._

He stepped over a middle-aged woman's splayed arm, putting his right foot next to her screaming head. Amy nudged against the body, and she flinched slightly, quickly putting her foot right, stumbling slightly. He paused and allowed her to regain her composure, and then he took another step, suddenly stepping on a man's fingers, which crunched suddenly, and he quickly moved his shoe back, cursing under his breath.

"Shit!"

"What is it?" Amy asked, short of breath.

"Its OK, I just put my foot wrong that's all," Ryan replied without missing a beat. "That's what I get for being clumsy, I guess," he then added. Amy chuckled slightly in response, and he smiled himself, before he started to move on again. Within a few more minutes, they had passed by the massacre, and stood outside of room 105.

"You can open your eyes now," he said, and she carefully opened her pale blue eyes, looking at the door before them, and then smiling widely.

"Thanks Ryan," she said quietly.

"It's the least I can do," he said in reply, smiling awkwardly. There was a brief pause, before she finally thought to turn and push the door open, stepping inside. Ryan shook his head before following after her, even as he heard her calling out.

"Mom? Dad?" Amy called, as she stepped through the hallway of her parent's place, a rather spacious-looking apartment, well-furnished as well with numerous brass-plated ornaments decorating a small table and mantelpiece. Ryan paused briefly and looked over the numerous photos of the Jefferson family, all of them smiling and happy to be together.

_And now they've been torn apart by this whole mess…what a damned shame…_

Amy walked out of view, though he still heard her calling out for her parents, something that reassured him that he wasn't alone. He walked through to the kitchen, all pristine-white tiled walls and marble counters, and looked out through the window just ahead of him, into the side alley of the building. He could see many corpses spread out on he ground, smeared in blood, and he also saw at least one zombie too, just loitering at the edge of his viewpoint. He moved away from the window, sure that it hadn't seen him.

Amy appeared from the bedroom, shaking her head. "They're not here," she said. "And if that's the case, then where are they?"

"Well what were your parents meant to be doing today?" asked Ryan, trying to be logical about what they did next.

"Well, dad wasn't in work today," she said, rubbing her face. "It was his day off today…but mom was working as usual, over at the flower shop near Pine Avenue."

"Pine Avenue?" asked Ryan, thinking. "That's near the edge of the city, so hopefully she got out-"

"But dad's not here!" said Amy suddenly, the stress in her voice apparent. "We've come all this way, and they're not here! And I don't know whether they're dead or alive, or-"

The shrill sound of Ryan's cell phone ringing cut her off, and both of them jumped a little in surprise. Ryan looked around, somewhat sheepishly, before he dug into his pocket and pulled his phone out finally. He looked at the caller id being shown, and his face lit up.

"Its Zac!" he said loudly, hitting the answer key.

"Zac?" asked Amy, but Ryan was already speaking into his phone receiver.

"Zac?"

"Yeah, its me," crackled Zac's voice back, sounding very flat and tired.

"Zac, thank God you're OK," said Amy suddenly, standing right next to Ryan and talking into his ear practically.

"Yeah, me too," laughed Zac, sounding a little flaky, before asking, "Where the hell are you guys?"

"Willow View Apartments," said Ryan, looking Amy in the eye. "We were looking for Amy's parents, but it looks like they're not here. Looks like we'll be heading to the police station-"

"Don't go to the police station," snapped Zac quickly. "Trust me, its like hell on earth over there, most of the police are already dead, and God knows where the others are."

"Shit," said Ryan, his hopes starting to deflate, a similar expression crossing Amy's face too. "Zac, where are you-"

A burst of gunfire was heard in the background. Ryan furrowed his brow. "Zac, what's going on there?"

"Ryan, I got picked up by some soldiers," explained Zac, even as Ryan could discern some whooping and hollering in voices he didn't recognise. "Say they're with Umbrella…here to rescue everyone."

"Umbrella?" asked Ryan, confused, before asking another question. "Can you trust them Ryan?"

"Well…they have a lot of guns," said Zac blankly. "I reckon considering recent circumstances, sticking with the people with the most guns is safer."

"Point taken," said Ryan, wanting to laugh but the current situation had drained all the humour from him. "Where are you right now?"

"The Cider District," was Zac's hurried response, just as he heard another burst of gunfire in the background, followed by some more shouting

"Got another one!"

"Zac, we're near the city limits where we are anyway," explained Ryan. "Hopefully, we can just take a straight line out of here. And hopefully those soldiers can get you out of this damned city."

"You're presuming an awful lot, Ryan," replied Zac, sounding unconvinced. "The R.P.D's been practically wiped out, and who knows if these soldiers can do any better?"

"Hey come on dude," said Ryan, trying to be light. "Don't get bogged down in those negative thoughts, you hear? Keep your chin up, that's what I always say, right?"

"Yeah, of course," said Zac, as more gunfire threatened to drown his voice out entirely. "Look, they're moving Ryan."

"OK Zac, you be careful, you hear?" said Ryan, the call clearly coming to an end. "Stay safe."

"Will do," was Zac's reply, and then the call ended. Ryan stared at his cell phone for a while, before putting it away.

"What was that about Umbrella?" asked Amy suddenly, and Ryan flinched, having almost forgotten about her being there in the room.

"He said he was saved by these soldiers," Ryan explained. "He said they worked for Umbrella, or something along those lines."

"But why would Umbrella have their own soldiers?" asked Amy, trying to make sense of it all. "They're a pharmaceutical company, why would they have a load of soldiers on their payroll?"

"Who knows?" asked Ryan rhetorically. "Either way, it's better than nothing that someone else is in this place fighting to help." Amy opened her mouth to say something else, but they were both distracted by the sudden noise of commotion from near the entrance.

* * *

Harold seemed to struggle for a brief moment, trying to reach out for someone, before he let out a long, drawn-out sigh, and his chest finally stopped rising and falling. Michelle held onto his hand until the very end, her fingers bone white by the time he finally relinquished his grip. She silently laid his hands across his chest, while tears stung at her eyes. Miles watched from nearby, head bowed.

"Goddammit…"

"I knew there was nothing I could do," sobbed Michelle. "I knew! But we still dragged him along with us!"

"Better than leaving him to die out there by himself at least," offered Miles.

"Oh what a shame!" said Patrick suddenly, from near the doors, throwing his arms in the air, causing Miles to look at him, face twisted into disgust. "Poor guy wasn't going to last long anyway, was he?!"

"Patrick, shut up," said Miles plainly, noting that Michelle was still visibly upset as she put a caring hand to his cheek.

"Oh well, guess we can go now," added Patrick, suddenly walking towards the open door. Miles' eyes opened wide in shock, and then he was moving, quickly putting himself in between Patrick and the doorway, barring him from leaving. "Get out of my way, Miles!" spat Patrick, but he held fast.

"No fucking way," said Miles, holding his open palm out. "You know fine well that if you go out there then you won't last 5 minutes!"

"I could get to the city limits in the same amount of time it takes the rest of you wasting your fucking time here on some lost cause," growled Patrick, not backing down.

"Amy is scared for her parents!" yelled Miles back, not caring how much noise he was raising. "Jesus wept, aren't you concerned for your parents Patrick? Whether they're dead or alive?"

"I honestly don't give a shit," retorted Patrick, his face blank. "My parents can go to hell far as I'm concerned. All I care about is getting out of here myself."

Miles blinked. Patrick may have been a well-known asshole on campus, but now it sounded as though he'd gone right off the deep end. He didn't even care about his parents right now, only about himself. Self-preservation must have kicked in big time, he reckoned. "Patrick," he said calmly, trying to see if he could salvage something from this mess, "come on, don't talk like that. Lets sit down and talk-"

"I AM ABOVE TALKING!" screamed Patrick, right in Miles face. "Now get out of my way, or I swear to God I'll beat you to death with my bare hands if needed!" Miles just stood there, jaw open.

"Fine," he then said, raising his frying pan.

"Oh, you're going to knock me out? Big man?" asked Patrick, laughing hysterically.

"Guys, knock it off!" pleaded Michelle, through teary eyes.

"Stay out of this, bitch!" snapped Patrick, whirling on her and pointing an accusing finger.

"Don't talk to her like that!" yelled Miles back angrily, his urge to whack Patrick in the face rising by the second.

"What?!" asked Patrick, turning back round and getting up in Miles' face, sneering. "You don't have the balls to do what needs to be done. Just let me walk out of here, and that'll be the end of it."

"Sorry: can't do that," was Miles response.

From over by the desk, Michelle watched the heated exchange with a fair amount of concern. Patrick had been fairly quiet for the last few hours, but when they had stopped he had gone back to the aggressive mentality he had originally, not caring about anyone but himself. She didn't know why Miles was trying to convince him to stay, as Patrick never listened to anyone beforehand. If he did stay, he'd just make a run for it when their backs were turned.

A sudden motion made her look away, towards Harold's body. He seemed to be shifting, but that was impossible: he had died right in front of her, his pulse gone. She started to shake her head in disbelief, her words catching in her throat-

Harold's eyes snapped open, showing them to be milky white.

She screamed, just as he sat up and made a lunge for her. Patrick and Miles both turned at the noise, and Patrick's eyes went wide as he saw the crazed look in Harold's pale eyes as he grabbed a hold of Michelle's petite shoulders.

"He's one of them!" screamed Patrick, pointing a finger. Miles shoved Patrick away into the corner, trying to get through to save Michelle from the newly-zombified Harold. She plunged her kitchen knife into his chest twice, the second blow going right through to the hilt, but Harold didn't even relinquish his grip, even as blood spurted from his chest onto her front. He tried to take a bite out of shoulder, but she drew back, his teeth gnashing at thin air. She screamed again, hysterically.

"Miles!"

Miles swung his pan around and struck Harold hard on the side of the head. He instantly released his grip and flew back, crashing against the reception counter, while Michelle and Miles fell backwards, slamming into the wall, before he pulled her away, still screaming. Harold got to his feet, the kitchen knife still planted firmly in his chest. Blood was streaming from his chest and the fresh wound on his head too, but Harold's blank face showed no recognition of either injury. He opened his mouth and a creaky moan issued out, similar to those other damned ghouls they had seen wandering the streets so far.

"Oh God…Harold," muttered Miles, as he stood his ground, shielding a distraught Michelle from the fresh zombie before them. Harold moaned weakly and made another lunge for his former friends.

_Thwack!_

Harold suddenly fell to the side, half of his skull mashed into pulp by an aluminium baseball bat. He hit the carpeted floor, his brain contents spilling out like spilled pudding, and Michelle screamed one final time, before she sank to the ground, Miles taking hold of her arms to make sure that she didn't hurt herself. As he cradled her carefully, he looked up to see Ryan stood there, blood dripping from the end of his bat.

"You OK?" he asked, and Miles just nodded slowly, as Amy then appeared next to Ryan, looking down at Harold's corpse and her expression dropping.

"Oh no…"

"Did you find anything?" Miles asked, trying to change the subject.

"No," said Amy, shaking her head sadly. "No-one's been here since this morning, and they're bodies aren't lying around either."

"So we don't know where the hell they are, in other words," said Ryan, somewhat dejected.

"So what are we meant to do now?" asked Miles, clearing the air with the most obvious question. But he didn't get an answer, as Amy suddenly looked around the reception, eyes wide in surprise.

"Hold on…where's Patrick?" Miles suddenly cursed himself: he should've guessed that Patrick would have used the distraction and slipped away as he was busy saving Michelle. Then he supposed that Patrick seemed as horrified as Miles was at the moment, and didn't blame him in a way.

"Patrick was talking about going off by himself," explained Miles quietly. "He was set on it, had this demented look in his eyes. He said he'd kill me if he had to." The new arrivals were silent as their minds processed this revelation.

"Well in that case I'll just have to drag the useless prick back, won't I?" said Ryan angrily, already moving towards the doorway, but he was called off by Miles crying out.

"Wait!" he yelled, and Ryan turned back. "Don't bother Ryan. Like I told you before, he'd just lost it…he doesn't care about the rest of us; hell he doesn't even care about his own parents! You drag him back here, and he'll just run off the first chance he gets."

"So you mean…?"

"He's not worth it Ryan," Miles continued, his tone turning very dark. "He's only going to get himself killed anyway. And frankly, the prick deserves it."

* * *

Patrick Denver sprinted down another side alley, looking back behind him to see if anyone or anything was following him. He was alone, luckily, and guessed it was because of Harold's sudden transformation into one of those zombies, as Ryan had chosen to dub them, and the word had stuck in his mind. He knew Harold was going to die sooner or later, but the others insisted on dragging him along…all because Ryan had to be such a self-righteous fool.

He started to slow down, and then finally came to a stop, a short distance away from an apartment's back entrance. He didn't know where he currently was, just that he had ran like hell from Willow View Apartments, towards the edge of the city, but had to duck off the main street into the back alleys when he saw it was blocked off. He started to think to himself.

_They're all dead anyway, I don't know why they bothered coming all this way…that bitch's parents are probably dead and walking around anyway: just like my parents._

Of course, he had no concrete evidence for either eventuality, but his mind was already made up. Long as he got away in one piece, nothing else mattered.

_Crash!_

A wooden door a few yards away from him suddenly smashed out of its hinges and a handful of zombies stumbled out, causing him to jump in shock. They swung around towards him, moaning in that hungry manner and reaching out.

"No…no!" he screamed, before turning and fleeing back the way he had just come, not knowing where he was going, as long as he got away from those damned monsters. Sweat rolled down his forehead as he ran, his legs screaming for rest, but he knew he couldn't stop at this moment. He reached the junction he had passed before, but nearly skidded to a halt when he saw another trio of zombies chasing after him from dead ahead, their hollow moans mixing with those behind him, giving him the impression of being surrounded on all sides. He looked around him, desperate to find some way out and eventually he ran off down the only other option available to him, the creaky zombies turning to follow him. Tears filled his eyes now as he moved, desperation taking over his every action.

He came across a closed steel door, and he slammed into it shoulder-first, barging through inside, before he ascended a flight of wooden stairs, ending up in a long, dark hallway. He sprinted on, panting for breath, passing by the closed doors and rounding a couple of corners. He looked behind him, but nothing was following him. He finally stopped when he smashed through another door, right at the end of the passage, and collapsed into a heap on the wooden floor inside.

He retched a few times, and then finally threw up, vomiting the contents of his stomach all over the ground, but he didn't care. He was still alive, and he had to hold onto that fact. He started to smile to himself, eyes closed, taking pride in what he had achieved-

-then he thought to look around the room he was in, which looked as though it was in the process of being renovated, half of the walls stripped of wallpaper, the furniture covered in old sheets; even a step of steps left lying in the far corner. The room was dark as well, the light bulb unscrewed from its fixture, but there was enough light from the corridor outside for him to see well enough.

Then he saw the body heaped in the corner: a middle-aged man with all the colour drained from his skin, his face looked forever into a mask of terror and insane agony, blood long having soaked through his pants and across the wooden floor. Patrick cried out in horror and scrambled to his feet, the sudden commotion causing something else in the room to move. He saw the massive shape move from within the shadows of the far ceiling corner, before moving towards him, making a steady _click, click, _sound as it came. Soon it was directly above him, and he could take in the full horror of its appearance.

It resembled something out of his worst nightmares, a green-skinned, bulbous beast, with six spindly limbs, each ending in razor-sharp talons through which it gripped onto the ceiling with ease. Saliva dripped from its mandibles, and its head was set with many shimmering green eyes, close enough for him to see his reflection upon them. The creature turned its head, regarding him with malicious intent, and Patrick swallowed, remaining rooted to the spot. Blood dripped from the creature's mouth, and it landed on his cheek.

Patrick Denver's last act on earth was to open his mouth and scream as loud as he possibly could.

* * *

Lenny stood on the street just outside the huge building located at the very end of Bake Street, looking up at it and considering his options. A wide set of concrete steps lead up to the huge oak double doors that marked the entrance, the sign above them giving away the building's use.

_RACCOON COUNTY ELEMENTARY SCHOOL_

The School was one of the city's oldest buildings, first built during the city's original construction some 40 years ago, and it was also one of the best education facilities in the county as well, holding a prestigious history. Lenny used to pass by most days while on patrol, and he could hear the laughing and shouting of the children as he and Jeff passed by.

But now the school and its adjacent yard was eerily quiet, much like the rest of this part the city. No zombies, no screaming or shouting, no gunfire: he couldn't even hear the sound of crackling flames that had been so predominant within the inner city.

He wondered if the children here had escaped the madness, but another part of him said that no-one would be spared from this mess, not even the children. And despite that huge knot in his stomach, he still had to keep his current objective; getting home, in mind. The end of Bake Street was practically impassable, from where a city bus had slammed into the corner of a building and half of it had collapsed, burying the rest of the street span in rubble and chunks of masonry. But he knew the streets well, and if he passed through the school and out of its back entrance, he would be very near to Pine Avenue anyway.

Knowing he couldn't waste anymore time, he made his way up the stairs, reaching the heavy doors and pulling them open, stepping inside.

As he did, he failed to notice the nearby R.P.D van belonging to the K-9 unit, its back gates left wide open, the dog cages torn apart.

Inside the lobby, Lenny noted that the lights were still on, and that there were few signs of any violence or bloodshed: no bloodstains, dead bodies, or anything else otherwise to suggest there had been a massacre here. He peered behind the reception desk, but he found nothing else of interest: this morning's attendance records were still left lying on the wooden surface. He curiously picked up one of the pieces of paper and read down a list of names, each one with a tick in red ink showing that they had turned up for class. One name got his attention in particular.

_Lewis Bristol._

That's right…his son was in school this morning, but Anna ended up bringing him back home when he had fallen ill suddenly. And now he was back at home along with his mother…he hoped, but with all the zombies wandering around, he couldn't afford to waste anymore time just standing around doing nothing.

He turned away from the desk and headed for the nearby door into the west wing, his footsteps echoing all through the lobby. The doors creaked as he pushed through, aiming his shotgun down the corridor. The weapon felt as though it was the only thing he could rely on within this madness, and he maintained an iron grip upon it as he scanned for danger.

The school itself was a roughly square design with a central courtyard, so the corridors and classrooms were located on the east and west sides of each of the three main floors, whereas the science labs, teacher rooms, supply rooms and other rooms were located on the north and south areas of the building. He knew the back entrance had to be within the canteen, at the very back of the first floor, so he had a relatively short journey to make at least. He passed by a few of the classrooms, the doors left wide open. He peered inside each one, but they were empty. The desks were still within their neatly ordered rows, almost as though nothing had happened. The walls of the rooms and corridors were decorated with various pictures and figures made by the children themselves: one display, on bright red paper, showed numerous farm animals, made from brightly-coloured paper, cardboard, and glitter gel. Lots of glitter gel.

_So innocent…and now look what's happened to the city…_

He reached the end of the corridor, and prepared to step through the next set of double doors, when he heard a sound from somewhere above him. He turned to the side, aiming up the stairs just next to him.

"Hello?" he called out, but nothing replied. The deafening silence returned to the hallways. He tried to peer around the corner, but he couldn't see anything that gave away what had just made the sound from before.

So now what? Did he go and investigate, and either save someone in need, or run into a pack of zombies? Or did he turn around, go through that door, and head out the back door towards home, where his family waited? As though nothing had happened? He knew his family was the most important thing ever to him, but still his police instinct to try and help anyone he could was starting to prickle the back of his mind once more. He sighed to himself.

He approached the stairs and started to ascend them quickly, his steps echoing more loudly this time.

Soon he was stood within the second floor corridor, looking intently for any signs of danger. But it looked clear, and he started to walk down the passage again, keeping his senses on high alert. Many of the lights seemed to be out in this section of corridor, and he found himself trying to squint through the relative gloom. This corridor was lined with dozens of steel lockers belonging to the students, most of them decorated with stickers, photos and other random personal items. A few of them swung open on their hinges.

He heard that same sound again, and he stopped in his tracks, aiming down the passageway once more.

"Hello?" he called out, his voice bouncing along the walls. "I'm with the police! Just come out and I'll get you someplace safe." His voice was starting to sound a little shaky by the end of that statement, impossible was it to hide his fear right now.

Silence greeted him.

_Goddammit… _he thought to himself, as he felt his bowls shift uncomfortably. He swallowed, but it didn't help much. Then the sound came again, to his direct right, and saw that he was just outside another classroom, its door shut in its face. But through the glass portion of the door he could just make out a small figure huddled just in front of the window, deathly still.

_So someone is still here…_

The figure looked alone, so he quietly opened the door. The figure remained in place, and now Lenny could see it was a young girl, her blonde hair going down to just below her shoulder blades. She also happened to be wearing the school's uniform, consisting of bright blue blazer and black skirt with tights, so she had to be one of the students. She just sat in place, rocking back and forth slowly.

"Hey," he said quietly, but the girl didn't even acknowledge him. "Hey there darling, are you OK?" he then said, but she still ignored him. Lenny sighed slightly, and then spoke once more, his voice as soft as he could manage.

"It's OK, sweetie," he said, just a few feet away from her now, crouched down. "I'm with the police. Come with me and I'll get you somewhere safe." The girl still didn't acknowledge him. Deciding that he had wasted enough time on this, he reached his arm out to touch her shoulder.

"Hey, are you even listening-"

As his fingers touched her shoulder, she turned around.

He cried out in horror and scrambled back to his feet. The girl's face was pale, her eyes totally devoid of any human emotion. She stared right into him, her mouth open slackly, blood dribbling down her chin. She was holding a severed arm in her left hand, numerous bite marks along the length of it, and she was still chewing on a mouthful of flesh as she stared through him. On the ground on the other side of her were the mangled remains of something indescribable, probably someone's dead body. Lenny backed away from the girl slowly, but the clatter of a chair being knocked aside dragged his attention to the back of the room.

A quintet of small figures approached from the end of the classroom, 3 boys and 2 girls, all of them dressed in the uniform of the school, all of them having succumbed to the horror sweeping the town. Their shambling gait and the empty, high-pitched moans now marked them among the undead, but in seeing innocent children consigned to such a fate…Lenny felt something inside of him break as he stared at them.

_Poor kids…_

He heard an animalistic growl and looked down to see the girl on the ground at his feet lunge at him, teeth bared, trying to take a chunk out of his leg. He moved back and promptly kicked her in the face with as much force as he could muster. Her head flew back, her neck snapping like a twig, and then she crashed to the ground, dead. He then quickly turned back towards the other children, as they lumbered towards him, moving faster than an adult zombie would have. He levelled his shotgun and pulled the trigger, not bothering to even aim for the head.

BOOM!

Two of the children flew out of the way, blood streaming from their ruptured bodies, while the others pressed their advance on Lenny. He didn't have time to pump a fresh shell into the weapon when a young girl with her auburn hair in pigtails reached him. He held the weapon out before him and she grabbed onto the stock, before he wrenched it to the side, lifting her off of the ground and slamming her through a line of desks, making an awful clatter into the bargain. He then swung back at a boy with a thin line of blood running down his face, and struck him right in the nose, sending him tumbling back, dead.

That just left one more boy, reaching out for Lenny with broken and bloodied fingernails. But Lenny had seen enough, and he backed up rapidly, as the pigtailed girl started rising to her feet again. Then he dashed out of the open door, slamming it shut behind him. He backed up slowly, breathing harshly, hoping that the two zombies left over wouldn't be able to break free. It was bad enough that adults were being turned into monsters, but the children as well? As a father himself, he prayed to whatever God was listening that his own child wouldn't be reduced to such a horrific fate as that.

He had to get out of that place, period. He was about to make a move towards the stairs when he heard the shuffling of many pairs of feet from down the hallway, and he turned his head to see at least a couple dozen more children approaching him, with at least two adult zombies standing in the rear ranks of the mass, likely drawn out by the noise of the fight from just before. Lenny regarded them for a brief moment, before turning back and making a run for the stairs, descending them two at a time, ignoring the baying cries of the undead behind him. He had had barely taken two steps within the passage when he heard a new sound.

A steady, rhythmic clicking, of long claws on the wooden floor. Feeling the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, Lenny turned his head down the corridor, towards the entrance, and he could see a shape coming towards him slowly. In the light, it looked like a dog, a Doberman to be precise, the chosen hound used by the K-9 unit of the R.P.D. He seemed to relax a little, but then the dog came closer to him and his face dropped.

The dog looked like it should've been dead: most of the skin on its left side had sloughed off of the bone, and some of the flesh on its upper jaw had been ripped off as well, just leaving a grinning set of fangs. Its eyes were dead white as well, just like the zombies, and there was that same dreaded stench of rotten flesh lingering in the air as well, stinging at his nostrils.

_It affects dogs too?!_

His thoughts were interrupted by the animal suddenly bearing its teeth and issuing a low growl, maintaining a low posture, preparing to make its charge. Lenny felt the hairs on his neck prickle even more, and he swallowed slightly, unsure what to expect of this new threat: would it be as slow and lumbering as the human zombies were-

The dog suddenly let off an abrupt bark and charged at him, still moving at full speed despite its rotted frame, spittle flying from the corners of its mouth as it galloped after him full tilt.

Lenny ran.

The cop turned on his heel and sprinted for the double doors leading into the next section of corridor, the monster baying after him, its claws clicking on the floor in a steady fashion. He barged through, and then turned, throwing them shut as fast as he could, just as the dog leapt up at the glass set within the top half of the doors.

_Crash!_

The glass shattered as the dog's nose punched through, and Lenny was thrown onto his backside as the doors shuddered under the weight pressing against it. He looked up at the smashed viewing glass, as he heard the maddened hound barking and baying on the other side, its slavering jaws occasionally appearing as it leapt up, trying to find a way through. Lenny got to his feet as quickly as he could, aiming his shotgun towards the door, in case the creature was to get through. But he looked safe for the time being, and turned back, heading for the heavy doors into the canteen. He burst through the doors, gasping a short snatch of breath.

The canteen was abandoned, much like the rest of the building, the myriad of tables and chairs scattered about in the rush to escape, along with numerous half-eaten dinners left behind as well. But he saw no bodies within his initial line of sight. He did see a couple of zombies though, members of the dinner staff reduced to shambling forms behind the main serving counter directly opposite the entrance, swaying on the spot. He could also discern another door on the far side of the counter, the back entrance, he hoped.

He started to make a move, ignoring the barking of the monstrous hound from behind him, when he looked down and saw a rather disgusting sight.

Another of those hounds was a few yards away from him, tearing into a bloody red chunk of something unidentifiable, before it suddenly glanced up at him, a trail of flesh and muscle trailing from its mouth, which it chewed nosily for a few seconds, before swallowing it down and fixing him with a thousand-yard stare, bearing its teeth.

_Oh fuck-_

The beast suddenly sprinted at him, in a space too confined for him to flee or dodge. He swung his shotgun to bear and pulled the trigger as fast as he could. But the creature moved too fast for him to get a bead on it, and the buckshot ripped straight through a plywood table just next to the monster's last meal, sending splinters up into the air. Cursing his bad aim and knowing that it was way too close for him to risk pumping a new round, bought his shotgun up in time as the dog leapt up at him.

Its jaws clamped around the shotgun barrel and its body slammed into him, throwing him onto his back and knocking the wind out of him. He lay sprawled, eyes wide open and arms holding onto the shotgun for dear life as the disfigured Doberman growled and tore at the shotgun, struggling furiously to sink its blood-stained teeth into his soft neck. Slaver dripped onto his shocked face, but he couldn't let himself be distracted.

Grunting, he planted his foot in the middle of the dog's torso and kicked, pushing it off of him forcefully. The creature whimpered as it flew back, but Lenny used the window of opportunity to sit up and cock his weapon, before firing a round of buckshot into the sprawling hound. The creature whimpered even more loudly and went flying backwards, its guts and other internal organs spewing from where his shot had ripped through the soft flesh. It skidded through a few chairs and tables, leaving a sticky crimson smear on the floor, before it finally came to a rest against the wall, unmoving. Lenny stared at the ruptured corpse for a while, before he scrambled back to his feet and pumped a fresh shell into his weapon.

_Damn, those things move fast…_

And besides, if dogs could succumb to this crap, then what else could theoretically be turned into bloodthirsty monsters wanting to rip his throat out?

_Crash!_

The glass in the doors behind him shattered and he threw his arms above his head as shards of glass dug into the back of his shirt, and he felt something rush past his arm. He looked up to see another of those twisted dogs- the first one he had seen out in the hallway in fact- turn around to face him, thick globs of drool trailing from the corners of its jaws. Its eyes seemed to gleam with joy at finding some fresh meat, but Lenny wasn't going to make the same mistake he made the first time around.

He levelled his shotgun and fired, tearing a sizeable chunk of flesh out of the monster's back and sending it rolling onto its back, but still alive. It quickly scrambled onto its feet, growling at him again, before making another charge at him. Lenny pumped his shotgun, but the spent shell lodged into the firing breech and jammed the weapon. He cursed freely and went for his Beretta instead, knowing he didn't have enough time to free up his Remington before it ripped his throat out.

The twisted hound leapt up, snapping at him, and he barely turned his body sideways to let it pass by him, sailing through thin air. It landed and continued on for a few steps, its claws unable to get a good purchase on the tiled floor, and instead it crashed into the doors, whimpering pathetically as it did. Lenny took his chance and opened fire, sending four shots into the sprawled dog. It shuddered and yelped as each bullet made contact, but it was the last shot, to the back of its head, that sent it slumping to the ground, blood pouring from its new wounds.

Lenny breathed a great sigh of relief as he lowered his Beretta, certain that it wouldn't be getting back up again. He wiped a hand across his brow, staring down at the dead monster for a while, before he finally regained his composure and remembered his purpose for coming here. He holstered his handgun and reached for his shotgun, working patiently to remove the jammed shell from the firing breech and freeing up the weapon.

He turned back towards the far wall of the canteen, to see that the zombified catering staff were just about on his side of the main serving counter, reaching for him with bony arms. Knowing that he had wasted enough time in this damned place already, he made a run for it, skirting around the undead and heading for the back door, barging straight through it and sprinting away into the night, his footsteps echoing behind him.

* * *

Zombies shuddered and fell, but there were a lot more behind them, ready to plug the gaps ripped through their front line.

"Jesus!" cried someone out of direct sight.

"Keep up the fire!" screamed Captain Mercer, dumping his empty M4A1 magazine and reaching for a fresh one. The barrel of his rifle was glowing almost white hot from the countless round she had fired so far since touch down, but he had bought along a couple of spare barrels, just in case the first one melted away.

He looked down the line, at the men under his command. Sergeant Dietrich's men, initially tasked with securing the empty warehouse, were now firing down the street directly behind Mercer, at the zombie crowd approaching from the general direction of a massive blaze that was gradually consuming the entire city district. The zombies came in all shapes and sizes: males, females, fat, short, thin: Mercer could even see a few young children within the mass, and most of the men tended to hesitate before firing at the latter zombie types. Going off of the radio chatter he could discern from the other platoons, they were all under heavy zombie attack, and very few, if any, living survivors were being found.

He hated to admit it, but it looked as though this mission was destined to end in abject failure.

"Reloading!" yelled Archer as he reached for a fresh magazine.

"I'm all out!" screamed someone else, as they tossed the bone dry M4 aside and started plugging away with their SIG Pro handgun instead. The Mohawk man from Dietrich's squad ripped a pin free from a frag grenade and tossed it as far as he could manage into the approaching crowd. The resultant explosion of flame ripped through at least a dozen bodies, but the ones spared by the blast just kept on coming as blood and liquefied internal organs rained down on them.

"Take your time!" yelled Archer to his men, taking a brief pause from the firing. "Don't squander your ammunition!"

"Whyte's boys better get their asses down here!" growled Dietrich, giving Mercer a rather viscous look, but the young captain ignored him, too focused was he on trying to get a hold of his fellow officer on the comm link.

"Whyte!" he called, loud as he could manage. "Whyte, come in!"

"Hear you loud and clear Captain," came back Whyte's recognisable tones, sounding a little bored, even over the odd burst of gunfire in the background. "How's the party going down there?" he then asked, sarcastically. Mercer ignored him.

"You can probably hear in the background," said the captain, trying to remain calm under intense pressure. "Where the hell are you?"

"About…3 blocks away from your current location," replied Whyte, after a brief pause after the 'about'. "Slow going though, most of the roads are blocked off by car wrecks or by zombie hordes."

"Did you find any civilians?" asked Mercer.

"We got about 5 civilians with us right now," replied the Lieutenant, even as someone just standing next to him cursed loudly and freely. "Most of them are in a fucking mess, to be blunt, but we're taking them with us regardless."

"OK, do you have an ETA?" asked Mercer next.

"Impossible to say…30 minutes at the most."

_30 minutes?! We'll all be dead by then!_

"OK…" said the captain, trying to conceal his fear at what he had just been told by Whyte. "You'll likely be approaching us from the North…but be careful cause you'll be coming up behind a shitload of zombies. We'll hold this place down till you get here."

"That's good Captain," replied Whyte, "because if you guys leave that place you'll be leaving me and my guys out to dry in the breeze, know what I mean?" That last part was delivered with a measured amount of sheer malice on Whyte's part, another officer within the U.B.C.S somewhat resentful of Mercer's lack of experience as a commander.

"Just don't screw up," Whyte then added, and his connection cut off.

Mercer cursed silently to himself and lowered his head. It was bad enough that his first mission in command involved a city filled with zombies, but now Whyte and Sergeant Dietrich were both threatening him if he failed to pull out all the stops. It was his first god-damned mission in a command role, what the hell were they expecting? A miracle? In truth, he could only do his best in any given situation…but with zombies bearing down on both sides, the future looked very doubtful indeed.

"Sir?" asked one of the men next to him, and he looked up suddenly. "You OK?"

"Y-yeah, I'm fine," he said, not being 100% convincing. He then turned his head and looked towards the shambling zombies approaching from down the street, and raised his M4 once more.

"Keep up the fire, people!" he ordered.

* * *

Robert Devlan paused briefly to wipe the sweat from his brow, and then he peered down through his sniper scope yet again, setting the sights over the sunken face of a middle-aged bald man in a dinner suit.

BANG!

The men pitched over to the ground, most of his head gone. He lay among over a dozen corpses, all of them victims of Robert's handiwork, but it seemed barely a drop within an ocean, as he could see the massive seething mass at the very far end of the street he was looking down on, seemingly moving in waves. He just prayed that the mass wouldn't be coming this way anytime soon.

"Jesus Christ, how many are there?!" asked Ackerman from next to Robert, as he unloaded the remaining rounds in his current PSG-1 magazine.

_The briefing said about half the population had been exposed to the virus…bullshit, the whole town's infected! _He thought to himself bitterly. The company had sent them into this hellhole purposely.

He heard some doors crash open far below him, and he glanced down to see Nick emerge into the open street, followed by Sergeant Price and the rest of their unit. Everyone seemed to be in one piece, which was always a good sign (he could hear the odd burst of gunfire previously as they made their way through the building below), but they didn't have any civilians with them either. Frowning, Robert opened his comms link to Nick.

"Boss, you didn't find anyone down there?" he asked.

"Nothing gets past you, does it?" laughed Nick's voice back through his ear, before the Lieutenant got serious. "No, we didn't. This place is entirely bare: nothing left here but the odd zombie…"

"Well that big mass of them down the street doesn't look too inviting if you ask me," Robert then added.

"I'm inclined to agree," replied Nick, and Robert could see the Lieutenant looking down the street towards the zombie mass, while his unit closed in on themselves, setting up fire positions to cover both approaches to their position, "but we still need to reach our designated rallying point."

"From the looks of things up here, it looks like the going would be very slow," replied Robert, keeping one eye glued to his sniper scope aimed down the street. "Aside from the zombies, it looks like some of the other roads will be blocked off by car pile-ups."

"Well we'll just have to deal with things, like we always do," replied Nick, and Robert watched him pull back the bolt on his M4 through the scope. "You guys, keep pouring on that covering fire."

"Will do," said Robert, before relaying the order to the other sniper team perched on the rooftop directly across the street from them. Down at street level, Delta Platoon set up a classic firing line, half of them kneeling down and the other half standing behind them, presenting a bristling battery of guns to the former citizens of Raccoon City. And then his terse order could be heard even without the use of cooms.

"Fire!"

* * *

Over in the Cider District, yet another small group of U.B.C.S mercenaries from Charlie platoon made their way down a wide avenue, dodging around crashed cars and firing occasionally at zombies that drove at them from the shadows. A small group of civilians herded along within the middle of the group, a rag-tag bunch, many of them still stained in blood.

Zac Briars panted for breath as he was moved along, wincing occasionally as the brutish-looking African-American man next to him fired off the odd burst from his M4 rifle. Aside from Sergeant Stokes, who currently ran at the rear of the group, Zac was becoming fearful of the other members of the squad they travelled with: nearly all of them were tattooed in some manner, and yelled and whooped loudly as they gunned down the zombies striking out at them from nearly every angle. And their leader, Lieutenant Whyte, as Stokes had mentioned, was a southern-accented man wearing a white cowboy hat which seemed totally at odds with the rest of his military uniform and gear, and he seemed just as brutish and loud-mouthed as the rest of his squad as he barked out orders that were barely heard over the constant gunfire.

The way these men presented themselves, Zac didn't feel that much safer with them than he did with a horde of zombies. They acted more like dangerous criminals on a jailbreak than trained soldiers, as though this whole situation was a big joke. Indeed, half of them blasted away at the zombies and jeered almost as though it was a duck shoot they were on.

_I suppose beggars can't be choosers though…__ They do have a lot of guns to kill those damn zombies. Just have to put up with them for the time being…_

He looked over the other civilians with him; two young men in matching white shirts, black slacks and ties, a young blonde woman wearing a blue blood-splattered blouse and jeans, and a middle-aged man wearing an ill-fitting grey coat, likely taken from someone else when the chaos had come. They had said very little during the recent dash, and to be honest he doubted they had much to talk about either, having just lost their homes, their lives, in such a short space of time. Hell, everyone in this city had.

"Sir!" bellowed the African-American, and the whole group shuddered to a halt, the woman having to be stopped by a gentle arm gripping her shoulder. That distant look in her eyes suggested she needed the aid of her fellow survivors just to keep track of what was going on around her.

Lieutenant Whyte looked down the street and saw the large horde of undead shambling around, just within the shadows of a blazing building that looked as though it was on the verge of collapsing entirely. Some of Whyte's men started to open fire in staggered bursts as they skidded to a halt, but the Lieutenant cursed to himself and flicked open the comms link in his ear.

"Mercer, come in!" he barked, glancing around to check that everyone was still with him. He seemed to curse, and then spoke again. "Mercer, if you can hear me, we've run into some more of those fuck heads and we'll be a little behind schedule! You'll just have to sit tight for a little longer!"

"Yeah…sure," came back Mercer's voice, sounding a little flaky right now. Whyte paid the young captain little heed though, and knew he had more pressing matters to contend with. He shouldered his assault rifle and prepared to open fire. Nearby, Zac clamped his hands over his ears just as the firing started once again.

* * *

Robert heard the horrific screaming, and he found his eye torn away from his sniper scope, for the first time during this battle.

Across the way, Delta Platoon's other sniper team were under attack. A swarm of black crows, shrieking madly, had suddenly descended from the darkening sky and attacked the two soldiers, tearing at them with their talons and beaks. It was something Robert had seen a few times before: normal birds infected with the T-Virus, though showing no outward mutations, did display a heightened level of aggression towards other living beings.

Robert saw one of the snipers throw his rifle down and stand up, flailing his arms in a desperate attempt to ward his attackers off, but it did little to alleviate the situation, and then suddenly he reached the edge of the roof and fell, splunging to his death below. He landed on a parked car with bone-breaking impact, warping the roof as though he had just sank into mud, the windows shattered outwards by the sudden impact.

"Fuck!" yelled Ackerman, who had looked up just in time to see his comrade fall. Fosker, still up on the roof, withdrew his sidearm and blindly fired into the flock of feathered creatures flying at him, but he only clipped a couple, which dropped from the air with pained squawks, before the rest of them descended on his face and proceeded to peck his eyeballs out. By the time Fosker tumbled onto the roof, his face was just an eyeless visage with blood running down his cheeks.

"PULL THE GODDAMNED LINE BACK!" screamed Nick as he started to back away slowly, slowly followed by his men, standing ten abreast as they fired into the seething horde. Joel Setzer's M249 spat out a deluge of empty casings as he raked back and forth through the zombies, dropping several of them, some of them nearly sawn in half, but the upper torsos continued to drag themselves after the mercenaries.

"Medic!" screamed someone, and Will Daniels sprinted forward, crouching next to one of his comrades who held his hand to the savage bite wound, blood pouring out. Will had barely crouched down next to the man and unpacked his kit, when he looked down and saw the man's eyes rolled off to the side, the life having drained from him in the two seconds it had taken Will to crouch down. He stared down at the body, the anguish on his face plain for all to see.

"FUCK!" he screamed, quickly ripping his SIG Pro sidearm free from its holster and swinging it up, double-tapping two bullets through an encroaching zombie. As it fell to the ground, he quickly gathered up his kit and moved back towards the safety of his own lines. He snapped off a few more quick shots before holstering his sidearm and readying his main weapon again. Across the other side of the street, two of his comrades lost a tug-of-war with a handful of zombies as they dragged another unlucky member of Delta platoon to his brutal death.

Robert was about to act when he heard another voice crackling within his ear, and he paused to listen to the desperate voice.

"Delta, this is Charlie," yelled the voice, over a cacophony of screaming and moaning. Robert recognised the voice as Sergeant Archer from Charlie Platoon.

* * *

"…we have suffered heavy casualties, repeat, suffered very heavy casualties!" screamed archer into his ear piece. All around him, his squad lay dead and dying, the life torn from their bodies prematurely. They lay among the corpses of over two dozen zombies, killed as they overran the barricades while they ran out of ammo. Mercer and Dietrich had disappeared inside the old warehouse, taking their soldiers with them, leaving Archer and half a dozen others to mount a defence. And he could raise neither of them on the radio either. There was no way that they could hold this place by themselves.

And he had been proven right, regrettably.

"We need backup, now!" he screamed again, looking up at the fresh line of zombies barely 20 yards away. "Is there anyone still alive, dammit?!"

Nothing but static greeted him. He should've known that their brand of short-wave radios wouldn't have much effect within a cramped urban environment, but his pleas before their deployment fell on deaf ears. Would it have killed the company to try and supply them with some different gear for this mission? Unless they didn't care about them at all, and Archer always had doubts in that regard.

Looking up at the zombies once more, Archer knew full well that his time had finally run out. With his M4 rifle out of ammo and down to just one solitary round in his side arm, he couldn't fight anymore. He'd done nothing but fight for the corporation, even since they had saved from that hell hole in Panama, but now it had all been in vain. He had fought through hell time and time again, hoping that they would grant him his freedom someday, but it was a false hope. He lowered his head, a single tear rolling down his cheek.

He opened his comms again, this time selecting the open channel, that would transmit to everyone else within the city. He didn't know if everyone or no-one would hear him, but he didn't care either way.

"Fuck! We're weren't prepared for this, no-one could prepare for this! This is hell on earth!" He cut the line just after that line.

He looked up, into the pale eyes of the first zombie that clambered over the barricade just in front of him, reaching for him with blood-dripping fingers. Archer took one look into those empty eyes, and knew he had no intent in joining those ranks.

He raised his handgun to under his chin and pulled the trigger, just before the cold fingers touched his shoulder.

* * *

"I think its time we got off the damned roof," said Robert finally, as he got to his feet, slinging his weapon around his back. Though he had heard Archer's final transmission fairly clearly, he had done nothing as he knew fine well that he was in no position to help the sergeant, and besides Delta Platoon had its own problems to deal with.

Ackerman followed suit, despite the intense fear that slashed his face. The two snipers approached the thick nylon ropes tied to the base of the water tower and extending down to the street below, giving them a quick exit to rejoin their comrades, rather than being left behind. Robert clipped himself onto the rope by his waist, and waited for Ackerman to do the same, but the man's fear meant that he was fumbling the simple action.

"Come on man!" growled Robert angrily.

"Just go! I'll catch up!" replied Ackerman, as the steel clip slipped through his sweaty fingers. Robert looked at his comrade for a brief moment, and then took the plunge, pushing out into thin air, his boots kissing the brick wall, before he pushed himself off again.

_He's taking way too long on a rookie mistake, _he thought to himself. _The fool's going to get himself killed!_

And as if on cue, he heard the screams above him. He looked up, and saw the crows darting hear and there, and saw Ackerman's flailing arms.

_No!_

A couple of seconds later, he saw Ackerman tumble and fall over the edge of the roof, his rope curling around his body as he fell, before it suddenly pulled tight, and he came to a halt with bone-shuddering force, his PSG-1 rifle falling to the unforgiving tarmac far below, leaving his suspended in mid-air. Ackerman screamed in a high-pitched manner as the crows caught up to him, pecking and scratching at his unprotected face. Robert couldn't bear to listen to the damned screaming, and while still hanging on with one hand, he promptly drew his side arm from his holster, and aimed upwards, one eye closed.

BANG!

Ackerman's body shuddered, and then went still, his arms and legs hanging loosely at his sides. But the crows continued to peck at him, tearing the skin and flesh away from his face, blood speckling down below the gruesome scene.

_Sorry Fred…_

Robert holstered his side arm, and gave himself one last push, giving his comrade's body one last regrettable look as he sailed away.

* * *

Ryan lead his friends wearily down the empty side road, the baseball bat in his hand dragging along behind him, making an audible noise, but he didn't really care for very much anymore.

Harold had turned into one of those things, and Ryan had ended his life with a single solid blow to the side of the skull. His brain matter was still stained on the end of the bat as well, and he tried not to think about it took much. And then Patrick, difficult enough to begin with, had snapped and just ran off, leaving them by themselves. He seriously doubted Patrick was still alive, and secretly he was glad they didn't have to worry about him just running off either. After taking a short break, they had headed out again, but the main paths leading out of the city were blocked off with no way of getting through, and so they had trekked back into the city centre, no particular goal in mind.

He glanced back over his shoulder to see how the others were coping. Amy was following close behind, her face poker straight, the kitchen knife held permanently to her side now. Just next to her, Miles walked along, holding Michelle close to him. She had barely said a word since the incident with Harold, and frankly Ryan didn't blame her: his blood was still caked on the front of her shirt, and even a few splotches on her face. Miles had tried to clean her up earlier, but she had twisted away and screamed something unintelligible, so they had left it.

"Ryan, are we going anywhere in particular?" asked Miles suddenly. Ryan ignored the question for a long time, before he finally opened his mouth, the words sounding forced.

"I honestly don't know."

Miles sighed in frustration, but no-one dared to say anything in response. The group continued on their course for a while longer, before they came out onto the top of an overpass overlooking one of the main avenues leading into the city centre, and Amy stopped to look over the scene.

"My God," she whispered, walking up to the edge of the overpass. Ryan turned his head to see what she was referring to, and he slowly followed after her, standing next to her to observe. Miles carefully lead Michelle up to the same point, shaking his head at what he was seeing.

"Oh man…"

All along the length of the street, they could see countless zombies. Most of them wandered to and fro, but others gathered around fallen bodies; gorging themselves, while some congregated around blazing car wrecks and store fronts, seemingly looking for something. Their haunting moans filled the air, rising and falling in a steady rhythm that sent shivers up their spines. In the far distance, they could see at least a dozen pillars of black smoke rising into the sky, choking it an oppressive black colour. They could also hear numerous sirens close by, doubtlessly from the emergency services as they tried in vain to save the city. And there were the other sounds too: constant screaming, and the odd gunshot.

"Jesus Christ…what the hell's happened to the city?" asked Miles, his voice barely a whisper.

"It's happening all over," added Amy, lowering her head.

"It's like hell's gates have opened," finished Ryan-

"And we're stuck in the middle of it all."

* * *

As darkness fell on September 26th, Raccoon City was in turmoil. Most of the city's population had fallen victim to the virus scouring the streets, turning the vast majority of the people into zombies. The R.P.D, not trained to handle situations of this magnitude, found itself overwhelmed and wiped out almost to the man within a few major offensives around the city. The other emergency services found themselves pushed to breaking point within a few short hours as well. Countless traffic accidents blocked off most of the major streets in the city, and caused untold amounts of destruction to other areas as well.

As the day drew on, Umbrella finally reacted, deploying the full force of their Biohazard Countermeasure Service into the city, a group of some 120 highly-trained mercenaries. But despite their superior equipment and knowledge of outbreaks such as this, they too found themselves overwhelmed against impossible numbers, largely in part to inaccurate intelligence before their deployment. Within the first hour and half, some 80% of the regiment, and the supervisors hidden within their ranks, were wiped out.

Against all this bloodshed, the first day of nightmares within Raccoon City was coming to an end.

**A/N: And there you have it. Again, sorry for the long wait between updates, but there's been a lot going on in my life, but I do try to work on my fanfics where possible. **

**The part where Lenny goes into the school, and nearly gets killed by child zombies is clearly inspired by the same scene from Resident Evil: Apocalypse, though of course he's able to act with his full brain potential and not get killed pathetically easy in this case. :p**

**For the next couple chapters, we shall return to some other characters and hopefully introduce some new scenarios and so forth, so stay tuned till next time folks. And as always, R+R please. **


	7. No Hope Left

Chapter 7: No Hope Left

**September 26****th**** 1901 hours**

Robert Devlan had been through the odd tense period throughout his time in the Delta Force, prior to joining the U.B.C.S.

The one incident that came to mind was the sniper duel he found himself in during his first week deployed in the Gulf War theatre. His patrol suddenly took fire from an unseen sniper, so they all took cover while Robert and his spotter took up a firing position on a dirt mound at the side of the track, to try and track down the elusive shooter. They soon fixed on an abandoned hut nearly half a mile away from their position, which would be a hard place to make an accurate shot from, in that heat, but this sniper was clearly a pro.

The two man team had barely assembled the massive .50 Barret sniper rifle that Robert would use to engage the Iraqi sniper when his spotter fell dead with a precise shot to the head. Aiming by himself, what should've taken 20 minutes soon descended into an hour-long stand-off, with Robert taking time to place his shots, opening fire whenever he saw an opportunity, then carefully changing position each time. Words couldn't describe the relief he felt when he finally saw the small puff of red, and saw the black-clad body tumbling onto the desert dust. His sniper training at Fort Brag had clearly served him well…as it had many times since then.

But this…this was unlike anything any of them had encountered so far. The remnants of Delta Platoon fled through a part of the city that was currently under construction, weaving and jumping over construction materials left lying about. Robert looked back over his shoulder, at the zombies that followed after them. Several of them were crouched over Richard Biel, tearing him apart. The point man screamed and thrashed about, trying to fight them off, but it was a fruitless effort. Even as Joel raked the rest of them with his M249, the point man was beyond help.

Even Sergeant Price had fallen. Robert hadn't seen him die with his own eyes, but he saw the Sergeant stay behind with a few others to mount a valiant rearguard action, and the chattering gunfire from their M4 rifles assured him of their continued survival. But when the firing stopped abruptly, he felt his heart plummet. Yet another constant presence within Delta Platoon, killed.

Right now they were heading for the St Michaels Clock Tower, the designated extraction point for the mission. They had come across no survivors thus far, and Robert doubted they ever would. The frantic radio chatter from Alpha and Bravo platoons suggested they had been largely wiped out, with no sign of any other life encountered. In fact, the last transmission from Bravo's Lieutenant Mitchell was just a drawn-out death rattle, and shortly after that Robert had switched radio channels. And as for Charlie Platoon, Lieutenant Whyte was well out of range, and Captain Mercer's channel seemed to have been switched off entirely.

Taylor lead the way now, firing his M4 with one hand, and using his other hand to tear the small throwing knives free from his tactical vest and tossing them at any stray zombie he missed. Next to him, Daryl Benson's S.P.A.S 12 carved a path through the undead, blood and torn limbs flying in all directions.

One of Taylor's knives pierced into the throat of a tall man in a grey sweatshirt, and then the scout swung one of his legs round in a sweep kick, planting his boot right where the knife had connected, pushing it back through the man's neck and severing his spine. The zombie slumped to the ground without any resistance, even as a petite female with her lips torn off made a lunge for the scout. But Taylor was too quick even for Robert's eyes as he came back with another spinning kick, planting his boot on the back of her neck and directing her forehead into the brick wall next to her, smashing her skull open like an egg.

Robert didn't know much about Taylor: all he knew was that the scout was a former Green Beret for some 3 years, perfecting his formidable fighting and scout skills during that time. The fact that he could fire an M4 rifle one-handed, and with admirable accuracy, spoke volumes about the man's skills. And he had a superb sense of direction too, so if Taylor said he knew the way, then he knew the way.

"Taylor!" yelled Nick, in between Myung and Briars, a blonde-haired man wielding an M4 with an underslung M203 grenade launcher. "How much further?"

"There should be an old shopping avenue ahead!" Taylor shouted back, as they came up to the alleyway exit. "We might be able to hold up there for a while!"

"Then go, go!" cried Nick, as he broke free from the scrum, wanting to lead his men from the front. He and Taylor shot down a few lingering zombies as they lead the group out onto an open street, where a fairly large group of zombies, nearly 30 in all, suddenly turned away from a crashed ambulance and started to approach them.

"Light them up!" barked Nick, as the others formed up beside him and started to open fire. Eight men, standing side by side, starting to tear through the zombies, even as many more were starting to trickle out of surrounding buildings all around them.

"Jesus! Shoot the fuckers!" cried Benson, as his shotgun ran out of ammo, and he reached for his ammo pouch.

"Fuck's sake Taylor, go for the headshot!" cried someone else, as the scout didn't take a zombie down with his first shot, instead blowing away one of its cheeks.

"Bring it you rotting fuckers!" screamed Joel Setzer, as he screamed through the rest of the ammunition in his current bullet belt, sending bodies and shredded organs spiralling away from him.

Taylor dropped a raincoat-wearing zombie by planting a throwing knife through its left eye, before he turned towards Nick, grabbing hold of his shoulder and pulling him round to see him face-to-face, to save shouting over the sheer noise.

"Boss, now would be a good time to order a fall-back manoeuvre!"

"Fine," said Nick without dispute, since he trusted Taylor's judgement as much as his own in situations like this. "Fall back!" he then yelled, waving one of his arms frantically in the air to get the other attention. "We can't take them all out at once!"

Robert nodded in agreement, just as he looked down the sights and fired, blowing away a bald man in a dirty grey sweater. He knew they couldn't waste ammo on everything they came across in this place, and besides, Robert had a bad feeling they were going to come across other types of B. soon enough, and they'd need to save their ammo for when that happened.

"Lee!" Nick then yelled, getting the demolition expert's attention. "Give them something to regret!" The Asian man just nodded in response, before he pulled a couple of grenades from his vest, and prepared to throw them.

"OK, pull back!" Nick then yelled, as he saw Lee's arm move up, and saw the grenades fly from his outstretched fingers, bouncing through into the crowd. The other U.B.C.S members started to pull back, following after Nick and Taylor as they disappeared down the street. The remaining zombies just moaned pathetically and tried to follow after their escaping prey, just before the grenades detonated, vaporising several of them and blowing the rest of them apart in a hail of red-hot shrapnel.

Robert felt something wet and sticky land across the back of his shoulders, but he ignored the sensation and followed after his comrades, knowing that if they were to get out of this place alive, they would need to rely upon one another. Soon enough, the street they were on opened out onto what seemed to be a shopping avenue, each side of the road lined with numerous stores, from clothing outlets to convenience stores and off licences. Luckily, it seemed this part of the town had been spared destruction, and there were no zombies to be seen.

"Spread out, find some place nice and empty," ordered Nick, as the unit spread out, presenting a battery of guns in every possible direction. Robert scanned the sky through his scope, looking for any crows that might descend suddenly. He didn't know if the rest of the unit had happened to see the other snipers fall to the infected birds, but it wouldn't hurt for him to keep watch himself.

"Over here, boss!" cried Joel, as he booted in the front door of a store that looked as though it had been condemned a long time ago, the heavy-looking shutters across its front window covered in faded graffiti. Inside, most of the furnishings and shelves were missing, except for the faded brown carpet beneath their feet, which was in the process of peeling away from the floor as they walked upon it.

"Clear!" barked Briars, as he swept the back storeroom for any lingering threats, finding the place thankfully empty.

"OK, get everything set up," prompted Nick, and the others wasted no time in unloading their gear, dropping ammunition boxes and backpacks into empty corners or spreading maps of the city streets across the fold-up table left in the store's back room.

"Boss, how long are we staying here for?" asked Joel, as he stood in the open doorway of the store, his machine gun covering the street outside.

"As long as necessary," sighed Nick, rubbing his face. "Briars, get on the horn, see if you can raise anyone else…"

"On it," replied the blonde man, as he set his M4 aside and reached for the large radio unit, selecting the open channel and trying to reach any of the other platoon officers. Meanwhile, Taylor walked around behind him, his M4 slung over his shoulder, rubbing his face tiredly.

"Ugh, this is bullshit!" growled Lee suddenly, as he dropped an ammo crate on top of the several more already stacked up in the back room. "Why the hell weren't we better informed for this?"

"Not the first time we've been dropped into an outbreak without the full story," noted Devlan as he peered outside.

"But this is ridiculous!" continued Lee, moving his arms either side of him, nearly striking Benson in the face as he did so. "No way in hell we could ever be prepared for this! The whole town's been infected, and its just us against the damned horde!"

"Can it, Lee!" barked Nick loudly, causing the Asian man to flinch suddenly, and then sigh heavily before turning his head away. "Briars, you getting anything?" he then asked, trying to think about other things.

"Negative," replied Briars, dropping the headset down on the table in annoyance. "Most of the other channels are dead, and the rest are filled with static. It must be all the tall buildings in this damned city, blocking the signals!"

"Jesus, why the hell didn't they outfit us with the proper gear?" asked Joel in disbelief and anger.

"We're stuck now, no use in whining about it," replied Nick. "Come on, we should be planning our next move."

Taylor paid no heed to the conversation going on behind him, as instead his ears perked up, picking something else out underneath the background of the constant screaming and gunfire from outside. It sounded like a low thud, muffled and indistinct, but he had been around firearms long enough in his life to recognise the sound of a shotgun when he heard it and it sounded barely a block away.

_Someone could still be alive!_

In an instant, he was gone, bursting out of the door past Joel and away down the street.

"Taylor! Wait!" cried the support gunner, but the scout was gone in an instant, disappearing down a sheltered alleyway less than 100 yards away.

"What the hell?" asked Nick as he appeared in the doorway. "Where the hell is he going?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, boss," replied Joel.

"Goddamit, guess we have to go after him then," growled Nick, before glancing around the store. "Rob, Benson, Joel, with me. The rest of you, stay here and hold down the fort!"

"Will do, boss," replied Lee.

"Come on, let's go!" barked Nick, and he moved out into the street, followed by Devlan, Joel and Benson, and soon enough the four mercenaries had disappeared completely from view. The Asian man sighed as he slowly closed the door and moved back into the store.

"Relieved you get to sit the fighting out for a change?" asked Briars sarcastically as the blonde man set about unloading all the ammo supplies they had bought along with them, aided by their medic. Lee didn't reply as he waited until his two companions were in the back room, before he moved over towards the far corner of the room, squatted down, and opened up his pack, pulling out a portable PC with a webcam attached to it, switching it on.

Unbeknownst to his comrades, Lee Myung was one of the supervisors chosen for Operation Bravo-16, prior to the mission even starting. Basically, it was his responsibility to collect combat data and report on every B.O.W encountered on this mission, as the corporation was sure some new B.O.W types would have been created in the midst of this outbreak. From what he could tell, most of the other supervisors were likely dead or fighting for their lives, so it was left to him to make a record.

Although the fact that the supervisors weren't meant to help anyone else did leave a nasty taste in his mouth. But if he came out in one piece at the end of this, then he would be in for a nice pay day- the 'fee' being offered to all living supervisors at the end of the mission would set anyone up for life.

Carefully, he switched on the webcam and made sure that the video feed was recording, before he finally started to talk, making sure to keep his voice low but clear.

"This is supervisor Myung, initial report," he breathed, before taking a moment to compose himself. "We have only been in the city for a couple of hours, and already most of the company has been wiped out by the zombie hordes. It would appear that most, if not all, of the city's population has been infected with the T-Virus…the spread of the virus has been a lot faster than expected."

He looked up as he heard the sound of Briars hefting a heavy ammo crate on top of another, and cursing freely. "Hey, are you going to give us a hand or what?"

"I'll be there soon," called out Lee quietly, before turning back to his web cam.

"So far we haven't sighted any new B.O.W's, but the outbreak is still in its initial stages, and experience has shown that the more advanced mutations need time to develop, while the virus incubates within a host's body. I know if I stay with the others, then my survival is guaranteed for the time being at least. End initial report."

He quickly snapped the PC shut and stored it away in his pack, before standing and walking into the back room to aid Briars and Daniels. "Sorry," he said blankly as he picked up a small crate and shifted it across the room.

"You talking to someone?" asked Briars suddenly. Lee paused for a few seconds, before replying.

"No, just talking to myself." Daniels scoffed before replying.

"You know they'll lock you up for that one of these days," the medic laughed, but his joke went unasnwered.

* * *

Within one of the corridors of the once-famed Apple Inn, a female zombie continued to beat against the same door she had been lingering outside for the last few hours. She knew fine well that some prey was inside; she had seen that man enter the room. And therefore, her one-track mind would keep her focused on trying to gain access to feed on his warm flesh. A brain ravaged by the T-Virus focused on little else now.

The woman sense something shift off of the other side of the door, and she slammed her fists against it, but the wood held strong. Then there was the sudden clicking of the key in the lock, and the woman moaned excitedly, banging wildly again. Finally, the door opened, as though of its own accord, and the woman got a view of the inside of the room. She took a single shaky step forward, and then another, so she was standing within the room's threshold.

But then the door moved abruptly, slamming shut on her left arm and sending her falling to the carpeted floor. She moaned again as she tried to rise to her feet, but the door closed tightly on her, a few of her ribs snapping like twigs. She couldn't move, and she wouldn't get much chance to do anything else, as something hard and cold came down and lanced through her spine, right between her shoulder blades. She shuddered, but did nothing else as the object retracted, and a geyser of blood erupted from the wound. She reached up pathetically, at the pair of legs that appeared before her.

The object came down again, and she felt nothing more.

Steven Dreyfus leaned hard on his knees, staring at the insane woman lying just a few inches away from him, her still arms still reaching out for him even in death. A massive pool of blood was bubbling out of her wounds as well, seeping through the grey carpet towards him. He carefully moved his feet back, so his shoes didn't get wet.

Though that would be the least of his concerns right now.

"You're quiet now," he said finally, still staring at the woman's body, somewhat happy that he had managed to silence her damned moaning. After he had seen those soldiers pass by a couple hours earlier, he was confident that these things could be killed. He was forced to improvise for his weapon of choice: he had unscrewed the shower railing from its fixture in the bathroom, and had used it like a spear, impaling her through the neck to put her down for good.

He was going stir crazy anyway, staring at those four damned walls for so long. The emergency line was dead, and those soldiers he had seen before had not even entered the building, as far as he knew. In fact, as soon as they were somewhere out of sight, their guns fell silent after a few minutes, and the discontent grew in Steven's gut with each passing moment. So his elaborate escape plan was somewhat inevitable.

He looked down at the bottom half of his shirt, smeared in fresh blood, and he tutted in annoyance. That shirt had been a present from his wife last year, and now it was ruined well and truly. But at least it wasn't his blood, he guessed as well. He straightened himself up, and then carefully went to retrieve his jacket, pulling it on with sluggish movements. That done, he then approached the woman's corpse, taking hold of the end of the rail with one hand, before pulling it free from her neck with some effort, even more blood spurting free and coating his pants. Weapon in hand, he then pushed the door open fully, looking left and right down the passage to check that it was clear.

Right now he knew he had to get out of there and head someplace safe…if there were any safe places left. The screaming from outside had finally died down somewhat, though he could still hear the combined moans of those strange people outside. He wondered how many more of them were still within the building, as he recalled the ones that marched through the broken front window of the café, and the ones that massacred the other hotel staff and guests. He wondered if any of them had followed him upstairs. He shivered as he saw those pale white eyes watching him from the dark confines of his mind.

The corridor was empty, thankfully, and he headed off, back the way he had come, his footsteps scuffing the carpet as he moved. He held the bloody shower rail in both hands now, ready to strike instantly if anything were to reveal itself. He constantly glanced behind him as he moved, to check if anything were to try and sneak up on him, and his harsh breathing rang in his ears, above the dull thud of his heartbeat.

He rounded the corner, and saw that this section of passage was clear also, the two room doors to his right shut tightly. He also saw another feature near to him: a large glass case, holding a heavy-looking fire axe. He stepped up in front of the case, examining it. Across the front of the case were printed the words '_Break only in case of emergancy', _in capitals.

_I'd say this was an emergency…_

Without pause, Steven swung the shower rail back and then straight forward, into the centre of the case.

_Smash!_

The glass shattered in an instant, countless shards falling onto the carpet, but Steven ignored it as he threw the bloody rail aside and reached into the case, taking the axe out. It was heavy in his hands, but the added weight only reassured him to the power of the massive steel blade at the end of the sturdy wooden shaft. He ran his finger along one edge of the blade, checking that it was still keen. The small sliver of red that appeared on his fingertip where the skin had been broken confirmed this, and he took the weapon in both hands, getting a feel for the best way to handle it. Once he was comfortable enough, he headed off again, slowly making his way past each closed door, straining to hear if there was anything behind them, waiting to leap out to attack.

He rounded the next corner, and came shuddering to a halt, before he threw himself back behind the corner, his back pressed flat against the wall. He carefully peered around the corner, straight at the male figure standing with its back to him, just beside the door leading into the stairwell. The figure swayed in place, and issued a soft moan, giving away its current state.

_Damn…so close and yet so far! _Steven though to himself, taking another careful peek at the creature. It just continued to stand there, staring at the ground just in front of it. Obviously it hadn't sensed him being there yet, but as it was right next to the door he needed, that wouldn't last very long he supposed.

He looked down at his newly-acquired fire axe, mentally preparing himself for his next action. Then he stepped out into the passage, slowly approaching the thing's back, trying to be as quiet as possible. He came within 15 feet, and it still didn't stir. Then he started to raise the axe above his head, clutching it in both hands, and then finally bought it down as hard as he could manage.

The blade embedded itself into the man's back, right between his shoulder blades. Blood squirted from the wound, and the man moaned in pain, falling forward and landing flat on his face, the axe being ripped out of his back as he fell. More blood sprayed onto Steven's front, but he was more focused on the insane man as he flopped uselessly onto the carpet, trying to swing round towards Steven on its hands.

Steven continued to stare in shock at the fallen figure, even as it tried to swing itself round towards him. A blow like that should've paralysed any human with a single stroke, stopping them from walking, or even moving around at all. And yet this man, with his spine split wide open, was still trying to get at Steven, despite his horrific wound.

_What the hell is wrong with these people?_

Then he remembered that he had to get out of there, and made a dash for the stairwell door, opening it up and plunging inside, but he found himself recoiling in shock almost as soon as he did.

Standing on the stairs leading to the third floor was a blonde-haired woman in a white shirt and black pants, one of the hotel staff, he realised. Except now one of her ears was almost falling off the side of her head, dangling on by a strand of flesh from where someone had tried to rip the side of her face off with bare teeth. Her face was blank as could be, her eyes having that same milky white colouration as all the others he had seen so far. She moaned and reached out for him, even as a second figure came into view behind her: a tall middle-aged man with his lips missing, exposing a demonic grin as he advanced.

The woman missed her step completely and fell face-first, tumbling past Steven and smashing head-first into a radiator, smashing her skull open with a gruesome sound. Steven yelped in shock as he saw the blood and brain matter pour from her shattered skull, but then he looked up at the grinning man, who took a shuffling step forward, just as yet another figure appeared next to him, choking the stairwell. Steven didn't stop to waste anymore time, and he ran for it, descending the stairs down towards the doors into the first floor, and closer towards leaving this damned place.

He slammed through the door leading out into the lobby, stopping to look around at the numerous corpses that still littered the floor, their life blood having long stained into the carpet and the flooring. He recognised many of the faces, the same ones he had seen massacred when those people broke in through the front doors. The smell of copper and decay in the air was almost nauseating, but he maintained his composure, as he could hear the soft moans from somewhere nearby, and heard the shuffling of feet on carpet.

"Can't stay here," he whispered to himself, just as he looked in the direction of the bar, and he saw the figures already approaching him. The lead figure entered the limited light and he saw that it was one of the bar staff, his smart red waistcoat and dress shirt ripped open, a large portion of the flesh on his right side hanging off of his bones, coagulated blood still dripping down onto the carpet with each step he took. Behind him came a few more figures in civilian clothing, each of them different in appearance, but all sharing the same blank expression and empty pale eyes.

He started to move away towards the exit, when he saw something stir from the corner of his eye. His eyes locked onto the body of the receptionist, still sprawled over the front counter.

_No-_

The young man's body began to stir slightly, and then he was starting to move, pushing himself up on blood-caked hands.

_-it's not possible-_

The young man moaned, a gurgling noise that rose in the back of his throat, as blood continued to bubble out of the wounds in the side of his neck and left shoulder, from when he had been brutally killed shortly beforehand.

_-he should be dead!_

The receptionist looked straight at Steven, his eyes showing that familiar glossed-over appearance, as he tried to reach for the human before him, but the counter was blocking his advance, and he just reached pathetically over the desk, before he suddenly fell forward, and slid over the counter and landed on his face loudly. Steven slowly backed away, even as he heard more movement from behind, and he whirled about.

He could see the other bodies stirring, much like the receptionist just had, rising up from their ultimate fates, staring at him with those pale white eyes. He felt his stomach vice as he saw them trying to encircle him, and he saw the others coming from the direction of the bar as well. And to top it all off, he could discern movement behind the glass of the stairwell doors, from where he had just came from.

He turned and made a dash for the doors, nearly jumping in fright as the slumped figure of a man in a plain t-shirt and jeans suddenly made a grab for Steven's leg, but Steven was able to stay just out of reach of the lunge, and he stamped down on the man's fingers for good measure. There was a satisfying crunch of bone and the man moaned slightly, but otherwise he didn't react and just reached out again, despite his fingers being hideously twisted.

Steven burst out the front doors, into the open street, and sucked in a big breath of air, but then just as quickly wished he hadn't, and he started gagging as the stench of dead bodies, gunpowder, and other foul odours flowed into his lungs. He covered his mouth over and looked out at the chaos in the street outside the Apple Inn. Dead bodies littered the pavement, most of them crazy people that had been shot to death recently. Spent shell casings littered the ground around them, so Steven guessed those soldiers from before must have come this way. But why the hell didn't they come in and clear the Inn out? They had the firepower and the manpower to do so, and from he had seen so far, these things weren't all that smart.

He could see other signs of general chaos as well: most of the front doors of buildings on this street had been smashed in, while he could see where a fire engine had pulled up further down the road, now long abandoned, its crew lying dead just beside it, its hose running freely across the street surface. And in the near distance, he could see the numerous columns of smoke rising up into the dark sky, which was quickly becoming choked with black smoke.

Raccoon City was burning.

"My God…" was all Steven could manage to whisper, before he heard the nearby moaning.

He turned to see the people from inside continuing to come after him, pushing against one another to make it through the cramped doorway. Then he looked towards where that car had crashed through the front glass into the Inn's bar, and he could see a few more of those people starting to emerge from the shadows, homing in on him. With only a short-ranged weapon to defend himself with, he knew he couldn't stay here, knew he had to get away from here. Where to, he didn't know yet, but anything was better than here.

Taking one last furtive glance over his shoulder, Steven made a dash for a nearby alleyway, fleeing into the night, empty moans chasing after him.

* * *

On the western outskirts of uptown Raccoon City, a group of 4 men dashed down a dingy side road, their heavy black boots reverberating through the cramped confines. They were all dressed in similar clothing: olive green shirts, beige fatigue pants, black tactical vests; the uniform of the U.B.C.S. Two of the men carried standard-issue M4A1 rifles, while another one carried a heavy M249 SAW machine gun, and the fourth one carried an MP5-A5 sub-machine gun.

"We can't keep running like this!" yelled the one holding the MP5, an African-American in his mid-20s, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to expose his toned arms.

"Save it, Briggs!" yelled the man at the head of the group, a freshly-shaved, handsome man in his early thirties, with piercing blue eyes and sandy blonde hair. Sweat poured down his face as he ran, his knuckles pale white as they clutched at his M4.

"But he's got a point!" huffed the stocky man holding the M249. "Those damned things are all over the streets! We need to get someplace else!"

"Fine!" yelled the leader, looking back over his shoulder at the zombies following after them. "We get out onto the next street, and then we start planning from there!"

Lucas Avery had served as a sergeant within the U.B.C.S Bravo platoon for the last 3 years, and prior to that he had served within the US Marine Corps, the latest in a long line of a family of soldiers: his grandfather had served in World War II, in the Pacific Theatre, whereas his father had served in the brutal jungles of Vietnam. Avery himself had served within the Gulf War, where he lead a squad known as the 'Daredevils', due to their rather reckless but highly effective tactics in battle, and soon enough most of the squad members had racked up a long line of military awards and commendations.

But then that was all dashed. When he and his squad were shot down behind enemy lines on one botched recon mission, rather than following orders to pull back and get to friendly territory, the Daredevils took the opportunity to push on further, and ended up coming across- and successfully destroying- an Iraqi fuel depot. The resulting engagement left half of the squad, including Avery, wounded, and also resulted in extra reinforcements being called in to safely extract the Daredevils. But once he had recovered, Avery found himself dishonourably discharged: accused of insubordination, alongside the rest of the Daredevils.

The episode left Avery disenchanted with his country, that he had served with distinction for so long, only to be kicked to the kerb like a piece of trash at the end of it all. He found himself in a string of dead-end jobs, and found his anger growing with each year that passed, and he started to take that anger out on others around him, leading him to get into trouble with the police as well. By late 1995, he saw no hope in the future for him.

Then he had that visit, from the strange man in the immaculate black suit and briefcase. The man knew Avery's name, his history, his record: everything. It had thrown the former marine off, even more so when the man offered him a position with his employer: Umbrella Inc, one of the world's largest pharmaceutical companies. Why they were recruiting former military personnel was anyone's guess, but once he heard how much he was being offered, he knew he didn't have much of a choice. Even now, that man's words pinged around inside his head.

"_Trust me, you can either turn me down, and live the rest of your pathetic life in obscurity__ until the police scrape you out of the gutter…or you can join us, and you can be set for life. It really should be a simple choice, Mr Avery."_

So he had accepted that offer, and the rest was history. Of course, he never expected to be fighting against flesh-eating zombies and other biological nightmares created by Umbrella themselves. But he was stuck here now, in the middle of the biggest nightmare ever.

Within minutes of touching down, they had come under attack. Lieutenant Barrows, their platoon leader, had his neck ripped open from behind while they attempted to set up a fire point to drive off the zombies attacking them from the front and sides. That left command to the sergeants, and Avery was pretty sure that his counterpart, Sergeant Xander, was dead when he saw his men falling back into a shattered store front. There was no way anyone could break out through that many zombies pouring in through the front door.

And so Avery had only three men left under his current command: medic Dylan Briggs, heavy gunner Michael Knox, and Corporal Erich Delacroix. Somewhat pathetic, considering they had dropped in with a maximum of 30 men. The entire regiment had been deployed into this damned place, and now most of them were dead.

_What a damned waste…_

There was a junction in the alleyway ahead of them, and Delacroix called out as he saw some zombies lingering there.

"Zombies! Dead ahead!" he called out, in his French accent. Delacroix was a former member of the Foreign Legion, a reliable soldier and a skilled marksman, even if he had a tendency to overreact in most situations. Though he seemed to be keeping things together pretty well for the time being.

"What else?" asked Knox, as he started to fire his M249, sending tight bursts of fire down into the thriving mass. Bodies shuddered and fell; blood and guts being painted up the walls with each impact. Avery and Delacroix aimed low, picking off the ones that still lived after being ripped in half. Briggs stayed at the back of the group, watching for danger, since his MP5 had a shorter range on it compared to the M4's.

"Keep going, keep going!" urged Avery, and his companions started to pick up the pace, as Delacroix picked off the last zombie remaining with a shot to the forehead. The group reached the junction, and started to clamber over the piled corpses, breathing harshly. Briggs lost his footing and nearly fell face-first to the ground, but he shot his arm out in time to save himself from going face-down into a pile of rotting corpses.

He was pushing himself to his feet when he heard a noise to his right and turned, spotting a few more zombies advancing from the back door of an apartment building, but luckily they were too far away to pose any significant danger to the U.B.C.S, and Briggs started to push himself back to his feet.

Then he heard another sound, and looked to the side again, to see two figures come pushing through the zombies, barging them aside. They were both male, one of them a bearded figure wearing a torn white shirt and brown slacks, while the other one was a middle-aged man in a blood-stained grey sweater and jeans, one of the jean legs ripped off to expose the bite wounds on his lower leg. Both figures had similar features though: blood-red skin, sharp talons on each hand, and blazing white eyes, seeming to glow in their skulls like flashlights.

"Crimson heads!" screamed Briggs, trying to get his good footing back before the creatures reached him, but that seemed unlikely, as unlike the slow zombies, crimson heads had regenerated enough of their muscle tissue to actually sprint after their prey. He'd never expected to see that type of B.O.W, and especially not this early into the outbreak.

He was able to get his MP5 raised, and squeezed down the trigger just as the first crimson head came within effective range. He fired a 3-shot burst straight through the monster's sternum, but it didn't even slow down. Eyes wide, Biggs fired twice more, sending two more bursts into the charging zombie. The final burst hit it right in the face just as it made a wild lunge for him, and the creature went twisting away, crashing to the ground with blood spraying from its face.

Briggs barely had time to switch his aim to the second Crimson head as it swiped its clawed hands at him, he reeled back instinctively, but the claws still raked across the exposed flesh of his right forearm, sending up a spray of red fluid. He screamed in pain and fell back against the wall, just as the monster roared and lunged for him again, but he was able to get his MP5 up and underneath the monster's chin, its jaws snapping at the thin air. The beast growled as it tried to get is mouth closer to his soft flesh, and Briggs cried out for aid.

"Jesus! Someone save me!"

"Hold on!" yelled Avery as he turned back and ran up to Briggs. He swung the butt of his M4 around, striking the Crimson Head in the temple and sending it staggering back, releasing Briggs into the bargain. As it stumbled on a pile of garbage, Briggs put a couple of bursts straight through its face, decimating its visage and sending it tumbling to the ground.

"Son of a bitch!" yelled Briggs, looking down at his bleeding forearm, crimson fluid pumping out at a steady rate.

"Come on, it's just a flesh wound, you'll survive!" replied Avery, trying to reassure his medic, but he didn't sound 100% sure of himself as Briggs pulled a dressing from his medical kit.

"What's the hold up?" called Knox, as he and Delacroix rained fire down at the zombies starting to close in on their position.

"Coming, coming!" yelled Avery back impatiently as he worked on applying the dressing to Briggs arm, deep crimson staining the white as it was wrapped tightly around the wound, as the medic himself swallowed down a couple of haemostatic capsules to ease the blood flow.

"Damn it!" crused Briggs as he flexed his wounded arm and slammed a fresh magazine home for his MP5. "I'm fine, let's go!" he then declared, moving towards Knox and Delacroix.

"Shit, you allright?" asked Knox in shock when he saw Briggs' wound.

"I'm fine!" barked the medic impatiently as he started firing at the approaching zombies as well.

"Come on, lets move!" ordered Avery, as he put a bullet right between the eyes of a rotund man in a dirty white apron, and started leading his men towards the path directly in front of them, which looked as though it would lead them out onto the open street. They clambered carefully over the mounds of dead zombies in front of them, as Avery slammed home a fresh M4A1 magazine. Soon enough, they emerged from the cramped brick passage, and emerged out into an open street.

From the street signs, Avery could see they were on 'Baxter Street', one of the main roads in downtown Raccoon. The place was an absolute mess: dead bodies littered the tarmac and sidewalks, the front doors of nearby apartment buildings smashed in brutally, cars lying wrecked here and there; practically every sign of a town in its last stages of existence. One way on the street had been totally blocked off by a massive car pile-up, leaving them only one way to go: North, further into the city centre. Countless columns of smoke billowed into the sky from around them and in the distance.

"Jesus Christ, the whole city's in ruins!" cursed Knox, looking around him nervously.

"Yeah," replied Avery as he looked around for a possible route for them to take. "We weren't prepared for this…we could never be prepared for something like this."

"Sergeant!" barked Delacroix suddenly, taking Avery's mind off of the carnage surrounding them, and back to their current predicament.

Down the street, the zombies were massing once again. This time, it seemed a huge crowd of over a hundred bodies were starting to gather, slowly moving towards the handful of U.B.C.S survivors. In addition, more figures were starting to stir from within the devastated apartment buildings, and also starting to appear from the way they had just come from, cutting them off from all possible routes of escape.

"Dammit!" growled Knox, hefting his M249 up, ready to fight back if required. "We have to move now, before we got hemmed in!"

"What he said!" agreed Delacroix, as the four Umbrella mercs started to pull in closer to one another, their weapons primed and ready. Avery started to scan every which way, desperately seeking an escape route for his group to use. He could feel the sweat trickle down the back of his neck, the anxiety building deep down in his stomach as well.

"There!" he cried suddenly, pointing towards a closed manhole a dozen yards up the road from their current position. "We can escape down there!"

"You're kidding, right?" asked Knox. "Down there, wading through shit up to our waists?"

"You'd rather be stuck up here and get eaten alive?" asked Avery to Knox's face, who just stared at the Sergeant for a while, not replying. "Fine, then we're going underground! Come on!"

Avery started to lead the way forward, until he was stood next to the manhole, the whole group taking up defensive positions around the circular sewer entrance, each gun picking out a different target around them. "Delacroix! Get that damn thing open now!"

"Right!" cried the Frenchman back, already working on lifting up the heavy cover and moving it aside.

"The rest of you, fire at will!" yelled Avery, and the others readily complied.

Briggs fired off a few bursts from his MP5, sending a few zombies falling back, their skulls perforated, while Avery carefully picked out his targets one by one, making sure that every one of his shots were on target. He didn't have much ammunition left anyways. Knox's heavy machine gun drowned everything else out, as he scythed through a whole line of zombies that emerged from a nearby apartment building, some of his rounds even cutting straight through them and chipping away at the brickwork behind them. But no matter how many they cut down, they could see many more massing behind the initial lines of undead. It was like fighting the ocean tide.

"Delacroix!" screamed Avery as he shot a young man wearing shattered spectacles right between the eyes.

"Almost there!" huffed the Frenchman, as he hefted the heavy steel covering the final few inches, exposing the dark drop down into the sewers below. The waft of something unpleasant was already creeping out towards him, but at least it made a nice change from the stench of rotten flesh. "It's open!"

"OK, get down there, now!" barked Avery, and the Umbrella mercs started to pull in tighter now, around the opened sewer entrance. "Briggs! You first!" then ordered Avery, wanting to get the wounded medic out of danger first.

"Affirmative!" replied Briggs, as he slung his MP5 over his shoulder and started to clamber into the opening, as Delacroix entered the battle, firing tights bursts of gunfire into the seething zombie mass. Knox stood tall over the manhole cover, sweeping his massive weapon from side to side, pushing the crowd back, trying to give them the valuable space needed to enter the sewers.

"OK, You next Delacroix!" ordered Avery, and the Frenchman complied, slinging his M4A1 over his shoulder and moving over to the open cover, dropping down inside rather than wasting time with the ladder. When he was out of sight, Avery backed away and then dropped down inside the manhole as well, leaving Knox alone by himself to hold off the zombie hordes.

The burly man unloaded the remainder of his current ammunition belt into the zombies, before he hefted the heavy weapon around to hang from his back, before he descended the ladder a few rungs. Then as the zombies started to hover over him, preparing to reach down to attack, Knox pulled the manhole cover across as he lowered himself the last few feet, and then the zombies were gone, sealed off from the outside.

Knox's feet touched down in a plain stone passageway, which was clearly free of sewer water, though the stench of human filth and other unpleasant materials could still be detected. A series of lamps along the upper wall lit up the passageway all the way along, though Knox could only see about 50 yards down from where he was stood, before it disappeared into oblivion. Briggs leaned against a nearby wall, his MP5 on the ground at his feet, his eyes closed, clearly in distress.

"Briggs, you OK?" asked Delacroix, who stood against the opposite wall, scanning this way and that with his M4.

"I'm fine," panted the medic, before he started sliding down the wall slowly. "I just need to…just need…"

"Shit! Briggs!" cried Knox, as he knelt down next to the medic.

"Knox, you know any first aid?" asked Avery, standing over the scene.

"Yeah…just basic stuff, but enough to help him!" replied the support gunner directly.

"OK," said Avery, wiping a hand down his face. "See what you can do for him then." At those words, Knox removed Briggs' medical kit and started to empty out the contents, looking for the morphine shots, as Briggs sat against the wall, eyes lolling as the wound on his arm started to bleed once more. Avery hated to admit it, but things weren't looking good for the medic.

The sergeant turned away from the scene, removing the current magazine from his rifle and checking how many rounds he had left loaded in it. He only had 7 rounds left, and with one full magazine still left in reserve, it meant the future was looking bleak indeed. He slid the magazine back into the weapon and pulled the bolt back, before he lowered his head, breathing deeply.

_This can't be happening…this cannot be happening…_

"Sarge?" asked Delacroix suddenly, and Avery turned to see the Frenchman stood before him, a look of concern on his features. "Can I speak with you?"

"Of course, Erich," replied Avery flatly. The two men advanced up the passage a short way, just out of earshot of Knox and Briggs.

"Look at him," said Delacroix as soon as they were far away enough, indicating towards Briggs. "Its obvious he's infected…even if it was just a flesh wound from a Crimson Head."

"Think I don't know that?" whispered Avery back. "But he's a hell of a lot luckier than most of us who got wiped out within the first minute…Jesus Erich, you saw what happened to the Lieutenant and everyone else! We could be the only ones left in the U.B.C.S Bravo Platoon!"

"Don't talk to me like an idiot!" hissed Delacroix back, glancing back over his shoulder to make sure the others didn't hear him. "But we can't just drag him along with us! You of all people know dragging a wounded man with us would only slow us down! And you also know fine well that he's going to turn into a zombie sooner or later, and then the rest of us are in danger when he does turn. It'd be better if we do the humane thing-"

"No!" snapped Avery. "I'm not going to just put him down like a dog! I've lost enough of my men today, and I'm going to keep the rest of you alive as long as I can, no matter what it takes!"

"But sergeant-"

"We're done here," said Avery firmly as he fixed Delacroix with a beady grin. "Soon as Briggs is patched up, we're moving."

Delacroix sighed in annoyance and turned away from Avery, shaking his head slowly and rubbing his brow.

"You know, I don't really care if you disagree with me Erich," continued Avery, "but my mind's made up. You want to keep living, you'll just have to trust me."

"Its not that I don't trust you, Lucas," replied Delacroix, his tone undertaking a sudden change, to a more sinister undercurrent. "It's just that this is proving a real headache for all my plans."

Avery furrowed his brow. "Your plans?" he asked, as Delacroix removed something from his tactical vest, out of plain view. "What the hell do you mean by that?" Delacroix turned back round to face the sergeant, his arm outstretched and holding his SIG Pro handgun.

"This."

Avery's eyes went wide in surprise. "Erich, what the hell-"

BANG! BANG!

Delacroix pulled the trigger twice before Avery could get his full statement out, and he felt the intense pressure hit the front of his tactical vest, on his mid-riff just below his sternum. The bullets didn't penetrate, but he did feel a couple of his ribs break under the sheer kinetic energy, and he was knocked clean off of his feet. He hit the ground hard, and instantly felt a rush of warm blood rush into his mouth and burst from his lips as the air was knocked from his lungs.

Down the passage, Knox looked up in shock and saw the scene clearly. "Erich, what the fuck are you doing?" he screamed.

In response, Delacroix turned and shot Knox through the face in an instant. The support gunner fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes, and the wounded Briggs suddenly stirred, trying to rise to his feet but unable to do so because of his fatigue.

"Erich? What's…going on?" he asked, barely able to open his eyes. Then he saw Knox's body, his face ruined beyond recognition, and he started to panic. "Knox! Oh God, Knox! No!"

Empty footsteps rang through the passage as Delacroix slowly approached the wounded medic, until he was finally stood over him, his handgun aimed down. Briggs tried to make sense of the blurred images before him, but the only consistent feature he saw was the barrel of a SIG Pro aimed at him, and Delacroix's voice, calm as anything.

"Sorry Dylan, but I really needed the money."

BANG!

Briggs' body slumped to the ground alongside Knox's, blood leaking from the fresh gunshot wound to his forehead. The Frenchman looked down at the fallen bodies of his comrades, no remorse shown on his features. Then he heard the coughing from nearby, and turned his head to see Avery lying on his back, still alive from being shot initially. Blood was leaking from his mouth freely now, his right hand reaching desperately for the discarded M4A1 lying just a couple of feet away.

Delacroix crossed to Avery in no time at all and stamped down hard on the sergeant's hand. The sergeant grunted in agony, unable to scream lest his broken ribs impale his internal organs even more. Avery looked up at Delacroix, and looked deep into the Frenchman's eyes.

He and Erich had known each other for years: they had trained together, fought through the worst of Umbrella's creations together: hell; they had even saved one another's lives on more than one occasion as well. Delacroix had even been there to help Avery out when he heard the news that his father had passed away from lung cancer. Erich was almost like a brother to him. But now, looking into Erich's passive, dethatched eyes, he saw nothing of the old Erich Delacroix behind them. He just saw a cold-blooded killer.

"Why…?" he whispered, finally, though the blood in his mouth. "Why…Erich…?"

"It was nothing personal, Lucas," replied Delacroix smoothly. "I'm just doing my job in the end. And looking after my own needs as well."

"Needs…?" muttered Avery, the life fading from him fast. "You…fucker…"

"None of you are meant to leave this place alive," continued Delacroix flatly. "Trust me Lucas, being shot is a lot better than leaving you to be killed by those B.O.W's."

"Burn…in hell…" gasped Avery, with what strength he had left.

"You first," replied Erich, lowering his aim and pulling the trigger.

BANG!

Blood sprayed across the bottom of Delacroix's pants, but he paid it little heed as he holstered his handgun immediately and then stooped down, stripping Avery's still-warm body of his ammunition and other supplies, mainly the sergeant's rations. Then he turned over Briggs and Knox's bodies, depriving them off any helpful supplies as well. They wouldn't need it anymore, he told himself. Once that was taken care of, he dropped his backpack onto the ground and took out a number of items, including a small digital camera, some files of paperwork, and a Dictaphone. One of the papers was entitled 'Operation: Bravo-16 Supervisor Requirements'.

In actuality, Erich Delacroix was another of the many supervisors that had been deployed into the city alongside the regular U.B.C.S members, for the sole purpose of collecting combat data on the various B.O.W's encountered. Of course, the others knew nothing of the supervisors' existence, and that's the way they wanted it. As well as being supplied with various items used to collect their data, each supervisor also had access to superior T-Virus antibodies and the explicit order not to aid any other member of the regiment.

Which suited Delacroix fine. He could've let them live for a little longer, let the B.O.W's pick them off one by one. But Briggs had been infected, and he would change anytime, and could potentially turn on Delacroix and rip his throat out, ending the Frenchman's efforts right there and then. So instead he had chosen to take care of the problem right there and then: and any other obstacles that would slow him down otherwise.

It was fulfilling as well. For so long he had made his best efforts to get along with the other members of Bravo platoon, when deep down he felt nothing at all. No compassion towards them, no sense of loyalty, no friendship. The psychiatrist described it as 'nihilism': basically, he just enjoyed snuffing out life. They said the same thing when he brutally murdered his old neighbours in cold blood, just because their dog wouldn't stop barking at night. And Umbrella had kindly got him out of prison in that instance, so he had a lot to thank them for, a lot to do in order to repay his debt.

He took out the Dictaphone and pressed the record key, pausing for a couple seconds before speaking.

"Initial report…it seems that most of Raccoon's population has fallen victim to the T-Virus. Its…unthinkable, watching hundreds, maybe thousands of bodies choking the narrow streets." He stopped and looked over his shoulder, thinking that he had heard something, before turning back and continuing.

"Most of Bravo platoon, and indeed, most of the regiment, was wiped out within 5 minutes of our initial landing. I believe that most of the supervisors within Bravo have been killed, and I may be the only one left. Either way, I cannot abandon my duties. From what I have seen, I am yet to encounter any other B.O.W's within the city, though it would appear too early within the timeframe of an outbreak for them to appear."

Delacroix looked up again, into the smothering darkness ahead of him.

"But I doubt I will find much down here, in the dank sewers," he continued, into his dictaphone. "I should press on, towards the forward operations post set up within the grounds of Raccoon Park…near to the disposal facility. I will update once I have reached my destination."

And with that, he ended the recording, and quickly worked on storing everything away into his pack, making sure that it was safely stored. Then he stored all his current ammunition supplies into the pouches on the front of his vest, for easy access, and then worked on taping a tac light to the under-barrel of his M4, and checked it to make sure that it was working sufficiently. Finally, he slung his pack onto his shoulders and rose to his feet, prepared to move on.

He walked off into the darkness, not even glancing back at the bodies of his comrades.

* * *

"Holy shit," muttered Steven Dreyfus as he looked at the scene before him, arranged in a small courtyard very near to the Apple Inn.

Over a dozen corpses littered the ground, the smell of blood and decay in the air almost overpowering. Five of the bodies were of those soldiers he had seen with his own eyes a while ago, and now they had been added to Raccoon City's ever-increasing list of the dead. They were all still holding onto their weapons, even in death, and they surrounded by brass shell casings and empty magazines, evidence of a valiant last stand here. The other corpses were just random corpses; a mix of men and women of various ages, all of them shot to death.

These soldiers had cleared almost an entire street of those creatures not so long ago, and here they had been wiped out by less than ten of them in a somewhat more cramped environment. Or maybe they had ran out of ammo when they were attacked, or maybe they were taken by surprise, or-

He shook his head to try and clear his mind. His one hope for being rescued from this mess had been reduced to chow, and he was on his own once again. The fire axe felt useless in his hands as he recalled the sheer scale of the destruction he had witnessed on the streets outside the Apple Inn, spied the gigantic smoke columns rising from all the city- what hope did one economic analyst from Umbrella have?

The sound of someone coughing and spluttering made him jump in surprise, and he quickly raised the fire axe up in both hands, looking around for the threat. But he didn't need to look far, as he glanced down to see one of the thought-dead soldiers shoving a dead body off of him, trying to peer through his blood-stained eyes at the figure standing near him.

"Is someone…there?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"Yes, someone's here," replied Steven, moving over and crouching next to the wounded man. "My name's Steven…what's yours?"

"F…Fletcher," whispered the soldier. He looked young, barely in his 20's, with chestnut hair shaved close to his head and a few days of stubble on his chin, along with at least three bite wounds on his upper torso, which had ripped easily through his olive green clothing. How he was still alive was anyone's guess.

"OK, Fletcher, why are you here?" asked Steven, eager to find some more information on these mysterious troopers.

"Sent…to rescue…civilians," whispered Fletcher, before he leaned forward and little and hacked, spitting out a mouthful of bloody phlegm onto the tarmac next to him, before continuing. "The…corporation…sent us-"

"Corporation? What corporation?"

"Umbrella-"

"Umbrella?" asked Steven in shock. Then he looked around at one of Fletcher's fallen comrades, and saw the emblem printed on the back of the man's vest. The familiar red and white octagon that was Umbrella's logo, crossed with a pair of swords. Why would Umbrella have a load of soldiers on their payroll? They were a pharmaceutical company, for God's sake!

"-looks like we…got cocky," continued Fletcher, laughing a little before the hacking coughs overtook him again. "Too many…zombies…too late for…me…"

"Zombies?" asked Steven, as he thought about the crazy people he had seen so far. He hated to admit it, but they did bear a startling resemblance to the same undead humans that had graced so many cheesy B-movies from the past. But this wasn't a movie he was stuck in…

"You…should…leave…" whispered Fletcher suddenly, getting Steven's attention again.

"What? Why?" asked Steven in surpise.

"Because…it's not long until…I turn…into…one…"

As if on cue, there was a soft moan and Steven looked back in time to see one of Fletcher's companions struggle to his feet, despite the numerous wounds on his arms and shoulders. He turned slowly to face them, and Steven saw the man's pale face and the white eyes, as he tried to take a step towards them, but caught his feet on a fallen 'zombie' and tumbled to the ground instead. Then a second body started to rise, still holding onto his assault rifle with his right hand as he lumbered towards them.

"Turn into a zombie?" asked Steven, his voice hoarse.

"Yes…" groaned Fletcher, before raising his right arm far enough to show that he was still holding onto a blood-soaked handgun. "Go on…run…escape…!"

"But-"

"Go!" urged Fletcher, suddenly shifting his body weight so he was at least propped up slightly to aim at his zombified comrades. "There's no hope for me, so go!" Steven looked down at the poor man for a while longer, and then back at the approaching zombies, even as two more were stirring within the pile of corpses.

Then finally, he pushed himself to his feet and took off running, towards an alleyway in the far corner of the courtyard, away from danger. A couple of the newly-risen zombies turned after him slowly, but the others continued marching towards Fletcher, who could barely keep his weapon raised.

The wounded soldier continued to stare up at his former comrades, knowing that death row was heaven compared to this hell. A needle in the arm would be preferable to turning into an undead flesh eater and wandering the earth for eternity, he reckoned. He had long decided on his eventual fate, even long before that Steven guy had appeared, unwilling to leave him to his fate. A brave man, that was for sure.

As the nearest zombie reached down for him, Fletcher moved his arm to the side of his head, pushed the barrel of his handgun against his temple, and pulled the trigger.

Steven skidded to a halt as he heard the gunshot from behind him, looking back in concern. When no other sound was heard, he knew fine well that Fletcher had met his fate.

"Shit," muttered Steven, turning and jogging away down the alleyway. "Shit, shit shit."

* * *

In the Cider District, Lieutenant Whyte of the U.B.C.S led the remnants of his squad onto the street where the old cider warehouse they were meant to join up with Captain Mercer was located. Getting here had taken much longer than anticipated, due to the huge number of zombies swarming the streets. Whyte just hoped that Mercer had leapt his end of the bargain and not left them up shit creek without a paddle.

"There!" cried their pointman, Harper, pointing towards the large brick building with the sign reading 'Fitch Cider Ltd'.

"Where the hell are they?" barked Whyte angrily as they drew closer. He couldn't see anyone from their platoon standing outside the building, just several lingering zombies, and he could hear no gunfire either.

From his position at the rear of the group, in between two of Whyte's men, Zac could make out the scene of carnage outside the old warehouse: bodies piled several deep on the road, and the distinct smell of gunpowder in the air, indicative of recent gunfire. Things weren't looking good.

"Oh God, its Archer's squad!" yelled the man known as Marvin as they came closer. He could see the fallen body of Sergeant Archer, alongside a few of his men, as zombies hovered over them, biting and tearing at their flesh.

"Shit!" yelled Whyte, before opening his comm link. "Mercer, where the fuck are you?" There was only a long drone of static to greet him. "Mercer, if you have left us high and dry, I swear to God I'll hunt you down and gut you like a fucking pig myself!"

Zac could feel the Lieutenant's anger, at having fought through all those zombies only to discover that they had been abandoned by their own. But considering the situation they were in, Zac knew that was the least of their worries. Whyte finally ripped the ear piece free and threw it on the bloody tarmac.

"FUCK!" he screamed. "Mercer's turned his channel off! Looks like that pencil-necked prick ditched us after all!"

"What?" asked Harper, desperation etched on his face. "So what the hell do we do now?"

"Hell if I know!" yelled Whyte back, before spitting on the ground in a venomous manner. "Looks like we'll have to deal with things on our own then!" He then turned towards Zac and the other civilians with them, half of them already showing signs of losing all hope.

"OK people, things are going to be a bit more complicated I'm afraid," Whyte stated, making sure his voice was loud enough to be heard over the background noise of zombie moaning.

"What about this backup you promised us?" asked one of the young men there.

"I'm sorry, but there is no backup now, it's just us." There was a look of disbelief on the civilian's faces, and the middle-aged man walked right up to Whyte, getting in his face.

"This is bullshit!" he yelled. "Those things are crawling all over the city, and you think that you five men can defend us from them all? You're deluded! There is no escape from there, there is no hope left!"

"Knock it off," snapped one of Whyte's men, moving forward to try and clam the man.

"Get your hands off me!" the man yelled back, pushing back, and in response the mercenary raised his M4 and rammed the stock into the man's face, knocking him to the ground forcefully.

The other civilians immediately cried out in protest and threw themselves at the merc who had just assaulted their fellow survivor, even as Whyte's other men moved in, trying to restore some semblance of control, ignorant of the zombies that still lingered outside the cider warehouse, not noticing the commotion. Pretty soon the scene descended into something reminiscent of a melee, as fists were thrown and blood was shed. It was the last straw when the middle-aged man, who had gotten back to his feet by then, suddenly grabbed a rock from the tarmac, desperation and the trauma of the outbreak having reduced him to such actions.

In a flash, Whyte pushed the man backwards and drew his SIG Pro. A second later, he pulled the trigger, sending the man dropping to the ground like a stone, blood spreading across the front of his chest. The woman screamed in a piercing manner, and the two young men backed away, eyes wide in terror.

"Lieutenant, what the hell have you done?" screamed Harper, as he dropped down on one knee and tried to help the civilian, but he was already dead. His face showed utter shock at his leader for what had just happened.

"Our own safety comes before everything else," said Whyte flatly, looking at his men, and then glancing over at the remaining civilians, who continued to stand there, eyes wide in shock at what had just transpired. Whyte turned towards them, and calmly readied his M4. At that moment they realised what was going to happen.

"Sorry, but you'd only get in the way."

Then he raised his rifle and opened fire.

In his hidden position in an alleyway a short distance away from the cider warehouse, Zac watched the scene unfold. He saw the other civilians attack the mercs out of nowhere, saw one of them grab a rock, and then saw Lieutenant Whyte gun them down as though they were nothing. He suppressed the urge to vomit as he saw the blood spray from their bodies, saw them fall to the tarmac like stones.

Seeing the zombies being torn apart with gunfire was bad enough, but they were only monsters. Seeing it happen to living, breathing human beings was another matter entirely.

And he also saw the mercs turn on their own leader, one of them frantically drawing his own M4 rifle and shooting the Lieutenant through the sternum at point blank range. Whyte barked out a cough as he flew backwards, arms either side of him, his cowboy hat tumbling from his head, and then hit the tarmac, dead. And it was only then that they finally noticed the zombies creeping up behind them, and whirled about quickly to engage them, but the monsters were practically up in their faces, too close to mount an effective defence.

Zac turned away from the scene and ran off down the alleyway, just as he heard the screaming. He had made a break for it as soon as Whyte's demeanour turned sinister and he was dealing with the middle-aged man, and was glad he did: if he'd stayed there, he'd have been gunned down just like the others. Those men were meant to save the civilians of Raccoon City, and now they had just butchered the few precious survivors they had been protecting for the last hour or so. Even trained soldiers were going insane, in the midst of all this madness.

So where did that leave him? Trapped in a city filled with the walking dead, with no hope of any aid coming: there was no hope left.

* * *

Several blocks away, Captain Mercer commanded the remnants of Charlie Platoon, just under twelve men, as he fired his M4 on full auto at their enemy. They were stood within a basketball court, a brick wall to their rear with an alley exit in the far corner in case the situation hit the fan, and chain-link fences to their front and sides. And lined up outside the fences were countless zombies, the front line holding onto and shaking the fence with as much might as they could muster, while several more lines came behind, all of them desperate to get to the fresh meat. Straight ahead of them, some of the monsters had already ripped a wide hole within the fencing, and several zombies staggered through, tripping over the bodies of their cohorts.

The drone of fully automatic M4 fire was heard, and the zombies went tumbling to the tarmac, their bodies ripped apart by the gunfire.

"We can't stay here!" yelled Sergeant Dietrich, his ammunition supplies getting dangerously low. "We need to move now! Whyte's men are as good as dead now, thanks to you, Captain!" the German added with a venomous glee.

"Shut up," whispered Mercer as he clicked a fresh magazine into place, just leaving the empty one where it fell. Dietrich moved around so he was almost in front of the Captain now, determined to get his point across.

"I told, you didn't I?" he stormed, furiously. "I knew it, we all did! That you would fuck up and get us all killed! Well once again, I was right, wasn't I? You no-good-"

Mercer suddenly stopped firing, whirled on the German, and grabbed the bulky man by the collar of his fatigue shirt, forcing him backwards, his face crossed with a hard glare. Dietrich didn't even fight back, so surprised was he by the sudden turnabout.

"Shut the fuck up shithead!" stormed the Captain, before letting go of Dietrich's shirt and pushing him back. "We all knew we were screwed the moment we touched down, so why the hell blame me? You so concerned about your men's well being Sergeant, then take them and go elsewhere, simple as that! We're all as good as dead anyway, but I for one don't want to prolong the inevitable! Fighting on is a fruitless endeavour!"

Dietrich was silent as he looked back at the young Captain, shocked by the man's sudden change of personality. Most of the other mercenaries there took no heed of the altercation that had just happened, though a couple of Dietrich's men watched with uncertainty, not knowing if this was going to end in bloodshed. Eventually Dietrich shook his head and regained his belligerent personality.

"Suit yourself!" he growled, before turning to the rest of his squad. "Come on! We're leaving!" he then yelled, moving towards the alleyway exit.

"But sir, what about-" began one of them, as Dietrich whirled on him.

"I gave you an order soldier! MOVE!" he screamed, and immediately the rest of Dietrich's squad, around five men in total, hurried away down the alleyway, glancing over their shoulders for a brief moment to check on the ones they were leaving behind to their fate. The ones being left behind to die. Dietrich was the last to leave, casting one final contemptuous glance at Mercer's back, before chasing after his squad.

Mercer sighed as he checked his current magazine, knowing that he only had one full magazine left after this one was exhausted, alongside a couple of hand grenades (which would be dangerous to use in such cramped conditions) and his SIG Pro sidearm, which may have allowed him to drop about 15 zombies with each magazine if he aimed well. And if the entire horde were to break through-

"Sir," said a voice to his left, and he turned to see the face of the young man with the black Mohawk who had talked to him earlier. As far as Mercer knew, he was in Dietrich's squad.

"Why didn't you go with your sergeant?" asked the Captain, softly, his voice somehow still audible over the incredible amount of gunfire going on at that very moment.

"Because you're right," replied the man. "We're all dead, one way or another. The Corporation never cared for us anyway, we were just pawns in their little game."

"You may be right," smiled Mercer in response. "What's your name?" he then asked.

"Heaton," replied the young man. "John Heaton."

"And what is your crime, soldier?" asked Mercer, referring to the exact reason why each soldier in the U.B.C.S ended up in the regiment originally.

"I killed my commanding officer," stated Heaton. "But I had good reason. He ordered us to massacre an entire village of innocents when they refused to give up this guerrilla group, and I was the only one who objected. When we fought over it…he was the one he didn't walk away at the end."

"A man of principle, that's good," nodded Mercer. "Don't let go of your principles, even if the other guy tries to ground you down to dust."

"Thanks," said Heaton with a smile.

"Captain!" yelled one of the other mercenaries, pointing towards the far side of the basketball court. All eyes turned in time to see the mass of zombies pulling at the wire link fence finally dislodge it, tearing it apart with ease, allowing dozens of their cohorts to pull themselves through the massive tear created. Within seconds the half dozen armed mercenaries found themselves faced with an entire army of zombies, with nearly a hundred rotting monsters advancing on them implacably. There was a brief moment of silence as the U.B.C.S checked their final ammunition supplies, and readied themselves for the inevitable.

"OK men, now its time we were set free," urged Mercer, before raising his M4 and preparing to fire. "You all with me?" he then added, and a loud chorus of agreements went up.

"Think we're with you," replied Heaton with a smile.

"That's one good thing at least," muttered Mercer, raising his M4 rifle and preparing to fire.

The remnants of the U.B.C.S Charlie Platoon held out for a further two and a half minutes, and managed to slay another 78 zombies before they finally ran out of ammunition. The last trace of their final stand was the explosion of their grenades going off in a combined suicide attack, which swallowed the remaining zombies in that basketball court.

No living person witnessed their couragous end.

* * *

Delacroix had lost track of how long he had been down in these damned sewers: he swore he was going around in circles, since most of the tunnels looked identical. He had been down tunnels meant for maintenance workers, filled with electrical boxes and lines of rusty water pipes, and also through sewer channels knee-deep in stuff he didn't even want to think about. And the maps he found pinned to the wall every now and then didn't help much either, as most of them were ripped and falling apart, long overdue for replacement.

But he was also safe: he had seen no zombies or anything else down here, in fact he was totally alone, save for the rats which scurried to and fro in the dark shadows and corners. He was in one of the narrow connecting passages which joined the main tunnels right now, his narrow tac light beam illuminating a spot of about 15 square feet in front of him as he shone it to and fro, trying to cover every inch of his environment: though that was impossible being by himself.

"Dammit…I don't deserve to go through this shit!" he growled as his footsteps echoed along the passage. "That stupid bastard Avery…dragging us down here!"

There was a high-pitched squeak, and something ran across his left boot, forcing him to jump in surprise. He glanced down to see a huge brown rat scurrying away into the darkness.

"You fucking vermin!" he growled, before he immediately raised his M4 and opened fire.

The weapon roared in the narrow space, its orange muzzle flash illuminating the dull brick around him, and also the numerous rats which now fled down the tunnel away from him. Empty brass casings tumbled to the ground, before he finally held back his trigger finger, and he was plunged into regular darkness, his harsh breathing greeting him.

_Calm yourself Erich…getting worked up won't help you much__._

"Merde," he cursed in his native tongue, as he looked at the smoking holes in the ground and realised that he'd wasted some of his precious ammunition on some petty grievance.

He saw a few more rats scuttling along a water pipe above his head, probably driven out by the sudden noise just now. He found it intriguing how the rats seemed to be uninfected by the virus ravaging the city, while practically everything else around them would likely be reduced to nightmarish monsters.

"Interesting," he whispered, before moving on again.

Soon enough he had exited the passage into one of the main sewer tunnels, only to be smacked in the face by the overwhelming stench of raw sewage and other unknown unpleasant substances. In front of him a 10 foot wide channel ferried sewer waste somewhere to his left, whereas he could also hear the sound of rushing water to his right. Turning, he could see fresh water gushing out of a pair of large outlet pipes mounted on the opposite wall. Otherwise, most of the lights in this tunnel seemed to be out, casting it into darkness.

"Wonderful," he said, remembering to breath through his mouth to avoid passing out from the stench. He glanced down at the ledge before him, making a rough note of where it dropped off into the sewage, so he wouldn't overstep his mark. Then he started to make his way to the left, nosing his tac light to and fro to watch for danger. He couldn't see more than 20 feet ahead in this tunnel, so he had no idea if it would lead to a dead end or to some form of escape, but he had to find out for himself either way.

He had only taken about a dozen steps when he heard the noise from somewhere behind him. He whirled around in an instant, his tac light piercing into the darkness, but picking up nothing. The sound came again, and Delacroix took a deep breath, trying to calm himself for whatever might come next.

The sound could have been a moan, a human moan…but it sounded different from a zombie's empty moan. It was a deeper sound, almost like someone trying to form words in the back of their throat, while also gargling blood or bile.

_Could be someone still alive…? Maybe one of the regiment? If so, then maybe we could work together to get out of this damn place alive…and then I'd get rid of them, like I just have with the sergeant and the others…_

"Is someone there?" called the supervisor, shining his light into the darkness, but being unable to detect anything. "Don't worry, I'm a human! I won't hurt you!" he then added.

The sound came again in response, this time being a lot more drawn out and a lot deeper, still sounding as though it were trying to form words. The Frenchman felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and he took a couple of hasty steps backwards, glancing back to make sure that he didn't slip on anything unpleasant and fall into the fetid water below.

Then a new sound came: a bone-shattering roar, from somewhere close by, reverberating throughout the tunnel all around him: baying for his blood. The Frenchman flinched visibly.

_What the hell is that?_

His flashlight picked up the silhouette of something moving in the shadows before him, something indistinct and large…much larger than a human at the very least.

"What the…?" he whispered.

And then the worst possible thing that could have happened then came to pass: his rifle's tac light suddenly flickered and cut out. Delacroix's world was plunged into darkness: and his heart itself plunged as well.

"No!" he cursed, immediately fumbling for the light and striking it with his balled fist. The small lamp flicked on and off rapidly, but not long enough to illuminate his immediate surroundings. He glanced up quickly, as he heard the same guttural growl as he had beforehand, a bit clearer this time. He continued to smack at his light, and then finally, it burst into light once more. Breathlessly, Delacroix swung his rifle up in front of him, just as something lurched out of the darkness towards him.

I was roughly human-shaped, but it practically towered over the supervisor, its right arm and most of its torso warped beyond normal dimensions by reddish-black flesh that covered much of its body surface. The tattered remains of human clothing, including a white coat, hung from its right shoulder, which was surmounted by a massive growth of bone which erupted from the top of the joint. But most of all, Delacroix was focused on the massive red eyeball lodged in the creature's right shoulder, which twitched randomly and pulsated in a steady rhythm.

"Holy fucking shit!" screamed Delacroix, stumbling backwards in horror, his calm demeanour shot. The unknown creature roared again, throwing its arms into the air, and then moved towards the fallen supervisor. He raised his rifle and pulled the trigger down, sending a burst of red hot lead into the creature's right arm. A few of the shots hit the eyeball directly, and the huge organ blinked rapidly, pink fluid spurting out in great jets. The creature screamed in what Delacroix assumed was pain, and the Frenchman took the moment to scramble back to his feet and make a mad dash for it, in the direction he had been heading previously.

Eyes wide, heart pounding in his torso, Delacroix ran forward, desperate to get the hell away from the screeching beast behind him. He didn't even notice the fact that his pack had slipped from his shoulders when he had fallen, landing in the stinking sewer water; his papers, his Dictaphone, all his other record-keeping gear lost forever.

His mind raced as he sprinted down the tunnel. He had seen the corporation's Tyrant bio weapons before, and this creature he had just seen was somewhat similar in size, but it was still different. What the hell was it supposed to be?

The creature roared behind him once again, as if to remind him why he was running for his life, and he dared to glance over his shoulder long enough to see its outline lurching after him, and he saw the razor-sharp claws on its right hand, glinting in the limited light. He could also see the rough outline of its head and the left side of its body, of human size, but he couldn't discern the exact features.

He rounded a corner ahead, emerging into a cramped pump room with no discernable paths of escape. His pulse spiked as he realised there was no chance of escape, and that he would likely die on the talons of whatever the hell it was chasing him. But as a man who always did things on his own terms, he turned back towards the entrance of the pump room and aimed the barrel of his rifle at roughly head height.

"Come on!" he yelled, taunting the monster. "Come and get it!"

A second later, the monster rounded the corner and barged into the pump room, smashing a load of bricks out of the corner of the entrance, screaming in his face as it did.

Delacroix squeezed down the trigger, and the orange glow of his discharging weapon illuminated the creature's warped features, as blood and other unmentionable fluids burst out of its thick hide. It roared and screamed in pain, but it was still able to sweep its massive right arm around, towards the supervisor's chest.

Delacroix felt at least two of his ribs break on immediate contact, and then he felt himself lifted up into the air, before he flew across the room and slammed into the brick wall. His rifle went twirling off in the opposite direction, its trigger mechanism jammed down and still firing, so it traced a glowing yellow and orange trail as it sailed through the air, before bouncing off of some protruding pipes and landing in some far corner. Bullets danced and pinged around the room, embedding themselves into the brick and any other solid object they found.

The Frenchman hit the ground hard enough to knock the air from his lungs, a spray of blood and phlegm bursting from his mouth and spraying across his prone form and everything else in range. Immediately he was gasping for breath, but it did him little good, as his body felt as though it had been constricted in a vice. His broken ribs lanced his internal organs once more, and the incredible pain in his body forced him into passing out.

Before his vision went totally dark, he saw the massive shape looming over him, its third eye constantly twitching in its socket.

* * *

Pine Avenue was a mess. Not in a bad of a state as the rest of the city, granted, but still a lot worse than its normal well-kept appearance. Several abandoned cars littered the street, some of them having ploughed through people's front gardens, one blue sedan having crashed through the front door of number 3, collapsing half of the home front. Trashcans lay overturned on the sidewalks, and the front doors of most of the homes were left wide open, many of them just smashed inwards off of their hinges.

And of course, the zombies wandered to and fro, some of them gathering around fallen corpses. But as he watched from behind a well-trimmed hedge on the left side of the street, Lenny found these zombies more chilling than the many he had seen previously: he knew all of these people, not necessarily all of them by name, but at least by face. His friends, his neighbours. And now they cared for nothing except feasting on his bloody remains. The people he once knew were long gone.

He moved along the hedge, passing by numbers 1 and 2, the doors thankfully closed. As he passed by 2, he peered in through the front window curiously and saw a disturbing sight: he saw Malcolm Henshaw, crouched over the body of his wife Mary, ripping into her collarbone with his bare teeth. Her face was locked into a mask of pure agony and terror, blood staining through her white blouse and jeans. Her husband ripped out a large chunk of her flesh and looked straight up at Lenny, chewing contently on the flesh. Lenny grimaced and quickly moved on.

He was almost there. Though it was barely half a mile from the city centre to this street, it had seemed much longer with him having to pick around the zombie hordes, and getting distracted taking the shortcut through Raccoon Elementary. The image of those zombified children was still burned into the back of his mind, as where those zombified Doberman that came after him, baying and snarling like hell hounds.

He came past number 4, the wooden gate into the backyard left wide open, and through it he could see the back of Bradley Laws, still dressed in his white and blue striped pyjamas, just standing idly in the middle of his flower beds, swaying slowly on the spot. The front door of the Laws residence was smashed in off it hinges as well, bloody streaks leading up the hallway and into the kitchen, and Lenny didn't think too much about where they lead to. As he hurried on, a lone zombie standing on the sidewalk turned to lurch after him, dragging a broken leg behind it, but he ignored it.

Lenny looked over the road towards number 7, the residence of the Smithson family, one of the more respected families in the city. Except now most of the house's windows and the front door had been smashed in, and a trio of zombies gathered over the body of Erica, the daughter of Susan and Kevin. Erica was a beautiful girl, both outside and in, and she didn't deserve that sort of fate. Lenny didn't know where her parents where, but he didn't have high hopes for their current survival. Just one more family in the countless numbers ruined by this whole mess, but he had to focus on finding his own family right now…and he was nearly there.

He passed by the corner of the Hatcher residence, number 8, which was directly opposite his own house, which he could see clearly now. His eyes didn't take themselves off that house as he slowly moved into view of its front façade. It looked relatively intact, the blinds on the front windows drawn, and no zombies lingered outside. But when he was standing directly opposite the home, he stopped in his tracks.

The front door was wide open, smashed in off of its hinges.

_No!_

He didn't have much chance to think anything else before he heard a snarl from behind him and he turned in time to see a female zombie lunging out at him from out the open doorway of the Hatcher residence. Lenny was barely able to get his arms up in time to grab onto her face, and his shotgun tumbled out of his hands. The creature's teeth snapped just a few inches from his chin, and he forced her back a few feet.

It was Jessie Hatcher. Bed-ridden for the last few days thanks to some illness, it looked as though she had indeed been afflicted with whatever it was causing this whole mess in the first place. She still wore a light pink vest top and pale white pyjama pants, her short dark hair tied back in a bun, her once bright blue eyes now just a dead shade of white, much like the other monsters that now wandered Raccoon's streets.

She tired to snap at him again, but he held his ground, pushing her head back further, and then eventually he had the room to throw his left leg forwards, striking her in the knee and dropping her to the ground face-first. She only moaned in an empty manner as she hit the ground hard, breaking a rib in the process, but Lenny didn't waste any more time. As she reached out for him, he grabbed onto the open door and slammed it forward with as much force as he could muster.

_Crack!_

There was a crunch of bone as he made contact, but she continued to try and reach for him, and he slammed the door in on her skull three more times, before the side of her temple popped open like a ripe cherry, and blood and liquefied brain matter squirted out over his shoes. Only then did she finally hit the ground, dead once more.

Lenny didn't even stop to catch his breath as he stooped down and retrieved his shotgun, before turning and making a mad dash for his own home, ignoring the zombies that had been alerted by the commotion and were moving to attack him. He covered the street in three seconds, jumping over the threshold to enter the house.

"ANNA! LEWIS!" he screamed as he entered the hallway, not caring if every damned zombie in a 5 mile radius heard him. He saw the bloody footprints on the wood panelled-floor leading towards the kitchen, but he paid them little attention, as he peered upstairs, and then ascended them 3 at a time, his heart pounding in his chest.

"Anna!" he cried, as he booted open the door into the master bedroom, peering around inside, but the room was immaculate, just as it had been left that morning when they both went to work. He cursed under his breath and thundered down the hallway, booting open each door as he came to it, yelling the names of his family with each one that swung open, but each room was empty, exactly as it had been left that morning. The last room he checked was Lewis' bedroom, the walls decorated with images of brightly-coloured cartoon characters, his toys strewn about all over the floor. Lenny quietly closed the door behind him as he left, his heart filled with sorrow at not finding his family.

"No…no…" he whispered, heading back towards the stairs and descending them rapidly, turning away from the open front door and heading into the lounge. It was empty, once again, though some of the furnishings were knocked onto the floor, as though someone had left in a hurry. He moved on into the kitchen, and stopped in his tracks when he was confronted by a male zombie, just standing there oblivious to his presence until he appeared right in front of it. Wasting no time, Lenny raised his shotgun as the zombie lurched towards him.

BOOM!

The zombie crashed to the floor, his skull missing. Lenny hopped over the corpse and out into the garden, yelling his family's names. The small backyard was relatively empty, save for a lone zombie that lurched towards him, arms outstretched, fresh blood dribbling down the front of its grey shirt and a recent bite wound on his left forearm. He looked into its face and realised that it was Eric Hatcher, Jessie's husband, now a hollow shell like all the others. And just beyond the zombie, he could see a furry form lying on its side in the grass, a fresh bite wound on its side.

_Sasha!_

Looking back at the zombie that was once Eric Hatcher, Lenny swung his shotgun like a club, the wooden stock smashing him hard in the temple and knocking the thin man to the floor, before he hovered over him and stamped down as hard as he could manage on the creature's head, smashing it like a watermelon. That done, he turned back towards the wounded form of the family pet lying a few feet away.

"Sasha!" he cried, as he dropped his shotgun, sliding onto the ground and carefully cradling the German Shepherd in his arms, stroking her fur softly. The dog whined quietly in pain as it recognised its master, her greens eyes barely able to keep open. "It's OK girl, it's OK," he whispered, stroking her carefully. "Daddy's here."

He looked down at her wound, and started to piece together what had happened. It looked as though the zombies had broken in and attacked, and like any good guard dog she had leapt up and taken a chunk out of one of Eric's forearm, but unlike the last burglar she had tackled in this manner, the zombie wasn't easily subdued and had taken a chunk out of her in return…poor animal. But where were the rest of his family?

"Come on Sasha, stay with me girl," he continued, not wanting to lose anyone or anything dear to him now. "Come on, we have to find Lewis to play with you, right?"

He stroked Sasha's side, and he could feel the animal's heartbeat fading away rapidly. The dog whined softly one more time, and then her eyes closed for the last time, her heartbeat becoming still at last. He stared down at her for several more seconds, resting his hand on the side of her neck, tears starting to gather in the corner of his eyes.

Then he could feel some stirring. Sasha was still moving, albeit in very small motions, as though squirming in a deep sleep. But then the low growl came, emanating from the back of her throat, and Lenny looked down at the animal again, eyes wide in disbelief. He raised his left hand and looked at it, Sasha's fresh blood still wet on his palm. Then his mind started working again. He thought back to the school…to those zombified Doberman that attacked him. If Doberman could become monsters, then it wouldn't be a huge leap of the imagination to think that other dog breeds could transform as well-

Sasha suddenly growled much more loudly and lunged upwards at his throat, snapping her teeth. Lenny was barely able to pull his head back far enough to avoid the attack, holding onto her neck to restrain her further. She struggled madly to escape, her eyes just as pale and glassy as all the others he had seen recently. Though it pained him to do so, he had no choice now.

"It's OK darling," he whispered, tightening his hold on Sasha's neck and turning away from the growling, rabid animal. Instead, he stared into the blackened, smoke-choked sky, holding his breath as he could feel his once-loyal family pet struggling in his arms. He tightened his grip some more, and Sasha's growls started to drop out, decreasing in volume as he tightened his hold. After several more seconds, the animal was virtually silent, and he gave one quick twist of his arms.

_Snap._

Then he released his grip, and Sasha's lifeless body flopped to the grass, her neck snapped. He continued staring off into the sky, ignoring the sounds of moaning from all around him. He had no choice, he thought to himself. If he had done nothing, then Sasha would have ripped his throat out without a second thought, much like those Dobermen at the school would have.

Finally, he rose to his feet, achingly slow. He retrieved his shotgun quietly, checked how many shells it had loaded, and then reached into his pants pockets to load what few shells he had remaining into the weapon's tube magazine. He calmly looked about the garden, making sure not to look down at his beloved pet's corpse. His eyes settled on the wooden gate at the rear fence, and wondered if they had left through the back alleyway. It was likely, as that route gave them a clear path round the back of the houses and onto one of the main roads leading in and out of the city.

Without another pause, he moved towards the gate and pulled it open, eager to get back on with the search.

As the gate opened, he let the zombies in.

An average-sized male with short ginger hair and beard, wearing dark-rimmed spectacles and a plain black t-shirt with a white skull design on it lunged forwards at him, growling rabidly. Lenny fell back in shock, landing roughly on the lawn once again, the zombie trying to fall on top of him, but he moved his shotgun around and aimed it into the man's stomach.

BOOM!

He fired, and the buckshot ripped a hole the size of a car tyre through the middle of the zombie's chest, throwing it backwards and out of sight, but it didn't stop its fellow monsters pushing through the opened gateway after fresh prey. One of them was Kevin Smithson, his once crisp business suit ruined by the huge bloodstain down one side of his torso, and the bite wounds to his right arm. He moaned with a slack jaw as he reached after his former neighbour.

Lenny pulled himself back to his feet, slowing backing off as the zombies pushed through the open gate and moved towards him, at least five of them in his back garden now, and several more massing within the back alleyway, just indistinct shadows at the moment. Cursing the fact that he couldn't go that way, he turned and started to make his way back through the house, but he found himself pausing in the doorway of the kitchen when he realised another zombie had entered through the front door and now stood in the hallway, blocking his route.

It was Mr Foster, or rather, what was left of him. Most of the skin and flesh on his face had been eaten away, leaving his visage as a bloody, grinning skull. Most of the flesh on his upper arms and torso had been eaten away as well, and the only way Lenny knew the zombie's identity was the bright blue gardening apron that still covered the creature's lower body. Staring into that grinning visage, Lenny knew that this was something he would never wish upon anyone, not even his own worst enemy.

With a low sigh, he raised his shotgun and pulled the trigger. The top half of David Foster's head disappeared in a geyser of red and pink fluid that splattered across the family pictures hanging on the wall, before the rest of his body crumpled to the ground. Lenny stepped over the rotting body and back out into the open street, looking around him, his thoughts racing through his skull.

Where the hell could they have gotten to? He guessed out of the back door and though the back alley, but seeing how zombies had poured in when he tried going that way himself, he wondered if they truly had, or if those zombies had just appeared after they had gone. But in the end, he was there and his family weren't. They were still out there somewhere, lost in a city filled with monsters.

"Anna! Lewis!" he screamed into the sky, even as the zombies remaining in the street closed in around him. "Where are you?"

* * *

Several blocks away, Anna Bristol frantically ran with her son held close in her arms, tears choking up her eyes. It hadn't been that long since they had abandoned their home, but it seemed much longer. The streets were totally devoid of life, save for the 'bad men' that now wandered to and fro, some of them crouched over dead bodies, eating their fill, though most of them just stood in place, staring blankly at some point in the distance until she drew near, in which case they came after them, growling like rabid beasts.

When they started bashing at the door, it wasn't long before they had smashed it off their hinges with ease, two blood-soaked figures staggering after them: one of them being Eric Hatcher, their neighbour from over the road, his once friendly-smile replaced by a vacant stare and fresh blood down the front of his shirt. She had screamed pretty loudly, she recalled, and had dragged Lewis out of the back door, closely followed by Sasha bounding after them, still growling at the intruders. The creatures had followed them all the way into the garden; even as Anna threw open the back gate so they could escape that way.

But then Lewis' voice crying out for Sasha distracted her. She turned in time to see the German Shepherd leap up to sink her teeth into Eric's left forearm, growling madly and drawing blood, but he showed no signs of pain as he moved his mouth down and tore a chunk of flesh and fur out of Sasha's side. The sound the animal made was a horrendous yelp of pain, and she hit the ground even as the two home invaders staggered after them. She had to practically force her son to look away in order to bundle him out into the back alleyway, dodging around even more of those warped creatures.

"Where are we going, mommy?" asked the boy, looking up at her suddenly.

"Keep your eyes closed, honey," Anna whispered, forcing the child's face into her own chest so he wouldn't be subjected to the horrors around them. "Don't look at the bad men and women," she then added, as he dashed past a pair of those creatures, one male and another female, the female having one of her eyeballs dangling freely from its socket.

"Where's daddy?" asked Lewis, his eyes screwed shut firmly.

"Daddy will find us, don't worry baby," Anna replied to her child. "He always finds us."

She held back the tears as she ran on.

* * *

When Erich Delacroix's eyes fluttered open slowly, the first thought that went through his mind was how the hell he wasn't dead yet. He was fairly sure the monster had broken several of his major bones in a single blow, which would have killed off any other man in an instant. Yet he was still there for some reason.

His view of the room's ceiling blurred in and out of view, and he became aware of thick blood in his throat and something lying across his chest. He groaned every so softly and grabbed hold of it, his hand becoming slick with something warm and sticky, before tossing it aside. Turning his head to the side, he saw that it was something organic, long and tube-like, slick with some form of mucus-like substance. He could also see the massive gaping hole in the brickwork, where the unknown monster from beforehand had broken through.

It could have killed him easily after knocking him out, so why didn't it take the opportunity to finish him off as he lay dying on the cold floor? He coughed, very slightly, and a thick fluid of blood and something else erupted from his mouth, landing on the floor in front of him. He stared down, eyes so incredibly heavy, at the puddle before him, his own crimson blood mixed with something thick and clear. Could that be…

He didn't have time to ponder it before he felt something contract in his stomach, causing him to cry out and nearly sit bolt upright in pain, a hot, lancing agony coursing through his entire midsection. He managed to force himself up into a seated position, despite his broken ribs and other injuries.

_What…is this…?_

Then the pain came again, this time lasting twice as long as it had done previously, and he felt something alive writhing inside of his body, inside his stomach, threatening to tear through the stomach lining. He gasped this time, spitting even more blood and clear mucus onto the stone flooring. So that confirmed it. The monster hadn't killed him beforehand because it had another purpose in mind for him: it had implanted something _inside_ of him, hence the crippling pain he could feel now. His stomach contracted once more, and he felt something writhe inside of him once again, almost forcing him to vomit.

He felt something rip through the soft flesh of his stomach, and he grabbed a hand to his navel, just as something tipped apart the flesh, spraying blood onto the ground. He stared down, eyes wide in horror, as he watched something pink and fleshly whip to and fro, before retracting back into his skin, and he felt the unknown form writhing about once more, trying to free itself from its organic prison.

Delacroix though it ironic that it would end for him like this, deep down in the dank sewers beneath some armpit of a city, with no-one else to witness his passing. It wasn't meant to end this way…but part of him supposed the second they touched down, they were doomed from the start. And also...he knew that he would likely be seeing Avery in hell much sooner than he had thought as well.

Propping himself up on one arm, he could feel the being inside him preparing for one last struggle. He clenched his teeth as he felt his sternum starting to strain, before the skin split apart in a spray of blood, and his resulting moan of pain rose up into a roar of sheer agony, as his chest cavity and his clothes were ripped apart with massive force, a blossom of crimson splattering out of his body.

The last thing Erich Delacroix ever saw was something small and fleshy sliding out of the bloody hole where his chest used to be.

* * *

At the far Northern reaches of Raccoon City was Arklay Pass, the local name given to where the main road branched out into the county highway, and a popular destination for tourists and for local couples looking to have a romantic getaway, out in the picturesque forests. Except lately the forests had been practically ignored by the locals, following the brutal murders back in June, and right now Arklay Pass was home to a different type of drama.

A steady procession of vehicles, nearly two dozen in all, stretched back down the road, back towards the burning city, in front of a barricade manned by members of the 12th Company of the Raccoon County Garrison , clad in full body armour and gas masks, checking each vehicle through in turn before waving them through. Around a dozen cars had already been let through in this manner, most of them driving straight off into the distance to safety, but others had remained, for whatever reason. Soon enough a steady number of 'refugees' had poured past the barricade, the troops setting them up some basic accommodation for the civilians, consisting of simple medical cots underneath heavy-looking tarpaulin tents, while medics tended to their wounds.

But to many on the opposite side of the barrier, the process was taking way too long, and a small group of people had gathered, arguing with the troopers stationed at the wooden barriers, and the group was steadily growing, as was the line of cars on the road.

"You need to step back sir," insisted a Corporal Davis, making sweeping gestures with his left hand.

"Come on, you can see clearly we're fine, just let us through!" retorted a young man wearing a black shirt and jeans, his face marked with a few smears of dirt. Several people around him agreed loudly, a few of them pushing up against the barricades and rocking them.

"This is for your own safety," replied the Corporal, trying to remain calm, though he felt very sweaty and constrained inside his gas mask. "We can't risk contaminating everyone else that's gotten out in the wake of the toxic spill-"

"Toxic spill? Bullshit!" growled a grizzled-looking older man with a beard. "I've seen fine well what's out there, what's killing everyone! That's no toxic spill doing that, I tell ya son!"

Further back, within a green command tent pitched at the side of the road, Captain Petrucci looked over a recent recon report given to him by one of the teams flying over the city by helicopter, to assess the current situation and extract any survivors if found. He frowned as he read over the black text, detailing the severe damage dealt to most of the major roads and streets, and other blocked off by massive car pile ups or fires raging out of control. What disturbed him the most though was the reports of 'unknown hostiles' wandering the streets in large numbers. It seemed his men had already engaged in a few small skirmishes with an enemy he had no prior knowledge of, a major concern for any military commander.

He groaned and leaned back in his fold-out chair, rubbing his face tiredly, somehow knowing that this mission wouldn't be ending without some kind of bloodshed. Jason Petrucci was a fairly handsome-looking man in his mid thirties, having served in the Raccoon County Garrison for the last 5 years, working his way up the ranks through his hard-working mentality and his intuitive approach. It was a position he enjoyed, even though active deployment in Raccoon County was very rare indeed: today's operation would likely be the first action he had personally partaken in for over 18 months.

Outside, he could hear the ruckus at the barricade increasing in pitch and volume, and he rose to his feet, reaching for his cloth cap and setting it atop his head, preparing to get involved himself. Maybe if the regiment's commanding officer made himself known, they would settle down.

"I'm sorry, I don't make the rules!" yelled Davis, as a few more troopers gathered around him, the people at the barricade getting very unruly now, a few of them even shaking at the wooden blockades, despite the M4 rifles aimed at them.

"No!" yelled a middle-aged woman. "We have rights, you know! You have no damned idea what we've seen and lived through back there!"

"You need to step back ma'am!" retorted another trooper, a sergeant judging by his shoulder stripes. "We can get you all seen in good time!" he then added, the young couple in the red people carrier parked right in front of the blockade, trying to get waved through looking vey concerned now, even as another soldier spoke to them through a half-open window.

"Sergeant Briars!" barked Captain Petrucci as he came into view, prompting the sergeant to turn in surprise and greet his commanding officer. "I thought you had this under control," he then added, just as the red people carrier was waved through, the wooden blockades being moved away to allow the car to drive through, a few more troopers forming a human barrier to prevent the protesting civilians from slipping through in its wake.

"These people aren't satisfied with the pace of the evacuation," replied Briars, pointing back towards the group of over a dozen people now. "Even though we've made it quite clear that we can't rush something like this."

"Well then, they just have to put up with it, won't they?" replied Petrucci, annoyance creeping into his voice. "In the end, we are doing all of this for their safety-"

A piercing female scream distracted the two soldiers from their conversation, and all eyes turned towards the blockade, as the crowd that had gathered before quickly dispersed, and for good reason.

The young man in the black shirt and jeans screamed in agony as another male, a teenager by the looks of it, sank his teeth into the back of the other man's neck, before pulling back, ripping out a massive chunk of flesh and sending the man falling to the ground, blood jetting out of the wound and leaving him writhing about on the ground in agony. But the teenager, clad in white shorts and vest, paid no attention to this, as he instead munched contently on the flesh in his mouth, almost as though it were a gourmet meal.

Petrucci faltered when he saw the boy's face: completely vacant and expressionless, his eyes completely white and clouded over, almost as though he was an empty shell rather than a living being. The boy stared right at them as he lazily chewed on his meal, even with four M4's pointed at him.

"Oh what the hell?" screamed one of the troopers through his gas mask.

"Stand down!" yelled Corporal Davis, finally snapping back into protocol and raising his own M4 to bear. "Don't move!" he then ordered, but the boy ignored them, instead moaning in a slack manner and took a shaky step in their direction, arms outstretched.

"Fuck! Open fire!" bellowed Davis, over the screams of the civilians who had scattered beforehand, some of them cowering in pairs and groups against and in between some of the parked cars, while those still inside had locked their doors and kept their heads down.

The rattle of multiple assault rifles discharging at once was heard, and the teenager shuddered as countless bullets ripped through his body, blood flying in all directions, but failing to knock him off his feet. It was only when one stray round smacked into the middle of the boy's forehead, snapping his head back, was when he finally fell to the blood-soaked tarmac, his arms flapping once as he landed, and then lying still.

The silence immediately following was absolute, save for the harsh breathing of the troopers who had just opened fire, gunning down one lone attacker who had seemed so out of it on some mind-altering substance that he had taken a ridiculous number of rounds to drop. Also audible were the sobs of a few civilians who cowered out of range, though a couple of them, including the bearded man, stood nearby, his face frozen with shock.

"Check him," said Davis, his throat dry, and one of the other troopers vaulted over the barrier, before checking the pulse of the young man with the back of his neck missing. He looked up, shaking his head, and in response Davis glanced back at his commanding officer.

"Fuck," muttered Captain Petrucci, knowing fine well how many news crews had just witnessed this display of force. He stepped forward, about to issue some orders, when he was cut off.

Another piercing scream was heard a little further down, as the civilians scattered back from a black pick-up truck, as the man inside sank his teeth into his passenger's shoulder, growling like a rabid beast, before pulling back and splattering the inside of the windscreen with blood. Davis prepared to order his squad to attack when another shout got his attention.

"Shit! Get him off!" yelled the trooper who had vaulted the barrier, as the body of the man at his feet grabbed desperately at his ankles, moaning weekly. Davis looked down at the man, the back of his black shirt saturated in his own blood, the wound on the back of his neck clearly visible.

_He was dead…I watched that man get the back of his neck ripped out!__ He had no pulse!_

Without a second thought, Davis vaulted the barrier and let his M4 hang from its shoulder strap, pulling out his Beretta handgun and aiming down at the groaning figure lying on the tarmac, pulling the trigger. The gunshot blared through his ears, slightly muffled by his gasmask, and blood puffed from the back of the man's head. A split-second later, he released and hit the ground.

"What the hell was that?" asked the private as he felt his leg released, but before Davis could answer, yet more screaming was heard.

All eyes looked towards the scattering civilians barely 20 yards away, most of them heading straight for the barricade, but others spilled in every other direction, as even more insane attackers appeared, seemingly out of no-where. They all looked the same as the teenage boy: vacant expression and glassed-over, milky white eyes, with no trace of emotion behind them. They moaned in a haunting manner as they lunged onto the nearest people to them, biting and tearing at them in an animalistic fury.

"Shit, what the hell's going on?" cried one of the other troopers, as he and a few others shifted the wooden blockade out of the way to allow five more troopers to push on through, one of them wielding a heavy M249 S.A.W machine gun, shrieking human survivors pushing past them as other troopers rushed to try and aid them.

"Who knows?" shouted back Davis and he drew back a short distance, just watching as the carnage unfolded.

In a black sports car about halfway back along the queue, the panicked driver slammed his vehicle into reverse and pulled a 180 degree turn, scraping past a blue sedan behind him and crushing a middle-aged woman beneath his wheels, but he paid no heed as he then gunned the engine and tore away down the road, back towards Raccoon City, guessing it was safer there than here. Elsewhere, another man pulled a young woman screaming from her car and threw her onto the grass verge, before jumping into her own vehicle and going for it, driving straight towards the barricade, barging another car out of her way with a screech of scraping metal.

One of the troopers at the blockade stood in front of the vehicle's path, waving his arms frantically, before throwing himself to the side, narrowly avoiding being run down as the driver wrenched the wheel, sending the car down the ditch at the side of the road and head-first into a tree, the windscreen exploding outwards as the engine block crumpled in like a soda can.

Elsewhere, another woman was dragged screaming to the ground as her partner suddenly turned on her and pushed her to the ground, feasting upon her upper torso and arms, all the while she screamed frantically, while another man was thrown up against the side of his car, having a chunk of his left cheek bitten off before he punched his attacker away, blood streaming from the wound on his cheek.

"Sir?" asked Corporal Davis, his voice shaky, looking back at Captain Petrucci, who looked as perturbed by the sudden events as the rest of his men. His face was almost a ghostly shade of white as he witnessed the events taking place, a steady procession of insane people approaching the barricade, with still-living humans running to and fro, most of them having abandoned their cars now, a few of them having disappeared into the surrounding forest even.

He knew that the needless death of civilians was inexcusable, but right now he was in the middle of a large scale operation…and sometimes casualties were inevitable.

"Open fire," he ordered, his voice barely audible. Davis turned back towards his commanding officer.

"Sir?" he asked, his voice trying to register what had just been said. "Fire…when civilians are still in the area?" Petrucci fixed with a hard glare, disguising his uneasiness.

"I gave you an order soldier! Open fire!"

Davis swallowed uncomfortably and turned around to look back down his iron sights. "Open fire!" he ordered, promptly. After a brief moment of hesitation, all eight troopers opened up.

The combined salvo was deafening, the roars of several M4 rifles and a light machine gun merging together into one cacophony of gunfire. There was a shattering of glass as most of the car windows and windscreens erupted as bullets smacked through them, and the loud hissing of air escaping as tyres were ripped apart with stray rounds. The advancing crazies shuddered as the bullets ripped into them, some of them not even balking as their limbs were ripped off by the fire storm. But they weren't the only ones to fall.

A young man trying to save his wounded girlfriend was hit in the left side of the ribs, the round blowing out the opposite side and knocking him onto his side, blood bursting out from his body, screaming in pain, while another man who had been fleeing in the opposite direction took four rounds to the back, and he fell face-first to the ground, arms splayed out to his sides. Further down, a woman who was cowering in her car shuddered as gunfire bracketed the side of her vehicle, and she fell out of view, blood splattered across the remaining glass in the windows. The man with the wounded cheek was still clutching at his face when he was bracketed with gunfire, knocking him to the side out of view.

It was utter pandemonium, constant hysterical screams mixed in with the automatic gunfire, the panicked troopers just firing wildly at any moving figure they could see, the muzzle flash practically blinding them to the general situation.

"Cease fire!" barked Petrucci eventually, and the gunfire immediately cut away, some of the troops crying out in blessed relief. Corporal Davis immediately pulled off his gas mask to survey the carnage, his eyes stinging from the stench of gunpowder.

The road was slick with blood and severed body parts, along with several corpses, at least a dozen on initial counting. Around half of them were of those crazed lunatics who had attacked the refugees, snarling like rabid beasts, but the rest were innocent bystanders, some of them clutching onto one another for dear life in their last moments, or trying to aid their loved ones. And as a result they had paid the ultimate price.

The silence was deafening, and Corporal Davis finally tore himself away from the grisly scene, quickly crossing the road over towards the edge of the tree line, before leaning over and retching, emptying the contents of his stomach all over the grass (and his boots). He continued to maintain the hunched gesture, coughing and retching for several more moments. Captain Petrucci looked out at him, and the back over the rest of his troops, his face a mask of horror.

"Oh my God…" he whispered. "What have we done…?"

"Sir?" asked Sergeant Briars, looking to his commanding officer for guidance. Petrucci looked over at him suddenly, taken by surprise. "What do you want us to do?"

Petrucci looked down at the carnage on the road, and then back over at the other refugees already extracted from the city, half of them still cowering from the apparent danger they were in, though a few of them looked directly at the captain, showing signs of disgust. The numerous news crews were also watching, most of them frozen in shock, before they regained their will enough for them to start reaching for their equipment, eager to find out just why a squad of fully-armed troopers had gunned down nearly a dozen innocent civilians who just wanted to get to safety.

"Get the road cleared," ordered Petrucci promptly as he heard the feet closing in on him. "Someone, move those cars. And get a team together to find the ones in the forest too. Now!"

* * *

Elsewhere, a UH-60 Blackhawk chopper hovered over downtown Raccoon City, its cargo hold already transporting four weary civilians who had been extracted from danger. Only four people found, in a vehicle normally designed to transport at least ten passengers. This was not looking promising.

Corporal Mike Parkman leaned out the side of the vehicle, the rotors roaring in his ears just above him, as he peered down at the streets they currently crossed over. They were an absolute mess: roads blocked off by immense traffic pile-ups, fires raging out of control, some buildings were even in the state of near-collapse, either due to fire damage or where large vehicles such as buses or articulated trucks had crashed through them, caving in half of the building front. The rotor blades buffeted a thick column of black smoke emanating from a blazing convenience store.

And then the streets were also choked with 'them', as one of his support gunners had referred to them. Though they looked human, their shambling gait, combined with their glassed-over eyes and the rotted state of their flesh, marked them out as being something else entirely…something dangerous. It was hard for him to put his finger on, and frankly he could worry about it another time.

He'd barely arrived at the checkpoint, part of the scheduled reinforcements as the military co-ordinated their own rescue attempts, to be told something about a toxic waste spill being to blame for all of this. But it had only taken a few minutes of flying to know that wasn't the case. The few civilians they had safely in the hold were constantly ranting about 'monsters' and 'zombies'. One of them, a teenage girl barely spoke or did anything else at all, just staring at some point in the distance, all attempts to communicate with her meeting a brick wall.

"Mike, there's nothing here," crackled the voice of Kirk, the chopper's pilot and Mike's old friend. "We should move on."

"Fine, take us over the city centre," cried Mike back, his own voice barely audible over the screaming rotor blades. The Blackhawk lurched about, and then headed towards the very centre of Raccoon, where the tallest buildings could be found. Mike was hopeful that someone had taken refuge on the rooftops, off of the streets which seemed to be the most dangerous areas right now.

Soon enough they had reached their destination, the immense glass skyscraper that was the Umbrella downtown HQ a prominent feature in the near distance, a massive image of the Corporation's logo on the side. It seemed intact, somewhat ironic considering the state of nearly every other building in the damned city.

"See anyone?" called Mike over the roaring rotor blades, at the two support gunners who manned the side-mounted chainguns.

"No, nothing" barked one of them, sweeping his pintle-mounted weapon back and forth.

"Negative," stated the other, and Mike sighed in annoyance, just before he heard the man's gruff voice again.

"Wait, over there!" he cried, pointing towards the west, and Mike followed his outstretched finger, towards the rooftop of a large office building, where he could see several small figures, almost like ants, on the flat building top.

"Over there! Now!" he yelled, and Kirk immediately swung the chopper around, heading towards the building's roof. Soon enough they were within range, and Mike ordered Kirk to turn the chopper round so the open side hatch was facing out onto the roof, and now Mike could better see the situation now.

He could see a long woman, in her mid 20's with blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, backed almost right up against the very edge of the rooftop facing him, and he could see that she was dressed in the garb of a local police officer, her standard issue sidearm clutched in her outstretched hands. She was joined on the gravel-laid roof by nearly a dozen other figures, staggering towards her. It was only then that he realised that they were those sick looking people he had seen so many times before.

She turned and opened fire, the gunshots barely audible over the Blackhawk's screaming rotors, shooting one of them twice in the collarbone. There was a clear squirt of red fluid from where the rounds hit, and the man staggered backwards a few paces, but otherwise he stayed on his feet, advancing forward soon after.

_That guy should be on the ground now…what's going on?_

Another one, a hefty-looking middle-aged woman, made a lunge for the officer, but she spun around and fired, hitting her right in the middle of the forehead, snapping her head back and sending her falling onto the gravel like a sack of potatoes. Then she turned once more and fired into the stomach of a tall man in a ripped business suit, gouging a few holes into the man's stomach, red dots forming on his white shirt.

"Hold fire!" ordered Mike to the gunner on his side as he grabbed for a nearby megaphone. "They're way too close in to risk firing!" Then he aimed the megaphone out of the chopper and called to the lone survivor. "Hey! Over here!"

The female officer turned suddenly, taken by surprise by the sudden booming voice that had come from nowhere, and Mike saw the look of utter surprise on her young and filthy face as she turned, not expecting in the least to see a military chopper in Raccoon's airspace. She maintained eye contact for a while, and then quickly turned back as her attackers closed in around her. She fired off her last few rounds, dropping another to the ground with a shot to the right eye, and then looked down at her weapon in frustration, before tossing it at her attackers.

"Closer! Get us in closer!" cried Mike, waving his arm frantically, as they hovered 20 feet from the rooftop edge.

"OK, just hold on!" barked Kirk in response, carefully guiding the Blackhawk in, so as to not slam it into the edge of the roof and bringing them all down in a blaze of fire. After all, it would be somewhat embarrassing to destroy a top-of-the-range military aerial vehicle while trying to extract a single survivor.

The young woman stepped right up to the edge of the roof, arms reached out, calling out for aid, her voice muffled by the ever-present rotor blade noise. Her face was stuck in a frantic expression, as the crazies closed in on her. But even within 10 feet of the roof edge, they were still out of range to pull her onboard.

"Closer! Jesus, get us closer!" screamed Mike, one hand holding onto the support rail above his head, the other reaching out for the officer to try and grab onto her and pull her to safety.

"I can't rush this you know!" cried Kirk's irritated voice.

"Fuck!" screamed Mike in annoyance, his only option being to wait while the pilot eased the Blackhawk into position…and time was not on their side. The officer's face was marked with tears now, her lips pleading desperately to be pulled to safety. He reached out as far as he could physically manage, straining his arm, but it was still no use, just as he saw movement behind her.

A blood-soaked man in a filthy grey letterman jacket made a lunge for her, but his movement was clumsy and awkward, and instead he plunged head-first off of the rooftop without a single word or utterance. The female officer shrieked in surprise as the body plunged past her, but then two more men, one of them the man in the business suit who had been shot just prior, made a grab for her. She turned to face them, screaming as she lifted her hands up in a defensive posture, as the suited man crashed into her, carrying her backwards- and off the roof.

"No!" screamed Mike as the bodies plunged away from him, the officer's terrified screams indicating that she was still alive as she fell, closely followed by yet another crazed man, who plunged to a similar fate. He didn't see them hit the ground, 20 stories below, but he knew fine well there was no surviving that. He leaned back into the chopper's fuselage, staring into the pale faces of the people remaining on the rooftop, reaching out for him and moaning hungrily.

He looked into those glassed over eyes and knew that there was nothing left behind them. Just a cold insatiable hunger that could never be satisfied.

"Mike?" asked Kirk's voice in his ear suddenly, as the corporal continued staring into those damned eyes. "Mike, are we done here?"

"Yes," sighed Mike eventually, as one of the moaning figures stepped forward and plunged off of the roof, following the fate of its cohorts from before. "Yes, we're done here."

* * *

"OK, its clear," whispered Ryan, as he waved the others out.

Amy was the first to go, glancing back and forth down the street they were on, closely followed by Miles and Michelle, the latter still being carefully guided by the former, who whispered words into her ear to try and make her feel safe, but he never received a response.

"OK, we're good," said Miles, and Ryan stepped out of the alleyway he had been stood in, his baseball bat present and accounted for. He took up position at the front of the group again, glancing around as he led the way down the street.

They were currently in one of the more affluent regions of the city, known as 'Arklay Heights'. Most of the city's richest and brightest citizens lived here, in six-storied apartment blocks constructed from sandstone, the bright colour of the buildings providing a sharp contrast to the somewhat drab nature of the city's other brick buildings. The streets were regularly filled with expensive sports cars or even limousines during important social events, and the place was practically devoid of any sign of urban decay: no graffiti, no overflowing trash cans, no defaced public property…

Except now, in the wake of this mess, even Arklay Heights was a bomb site. The expensive cars at the side of the roads were abandoned and forlorn, some of them with their windscreens and side windows smashed in, others partially crushed from where they had collided head-on in a desperate rush to escape. The sidewalks were covered with blood and the corpses of those too bitten up to return as zombies, and some walls had been daubed with graffiti, leaving messages of current thoughts to any remaining survivors.

_The Lord says repent! _

_I told you the end was coming, didn't I? And not one of you fuckers listened to me!_

_WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE. WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE. WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE._

Ryan ignored that last one the best he could. His hope was already looking pretty shredded, since he had smashed Harold's skull in like a grape.

He glanced back at Michelle, her eyes permanently cast downwards. She had been practically comatose since Harold's transformation into a zombie and his subsequent death, and any attempt to communicate with her had hit a dead wall. Miles had helped her along the whole way, which was commendable of him, but Ryan still worried that Michelle had given up all hope she had left for the future. If they were attacked by zombies, he feared that she wouldn't even be able to save herself when the time came.

"…you hear that?" asked Amy suddenly, causing him to stop dead in his tracks.

"Hear what?" he asked, but immediately afterwards he started to hear just what she was referring to. He perked his ears up, hearing a sound he never imagined to hear in the middle of a zombie outbreak.

"Piano music?" he whispered, as the tinkling of haunting keys flowed into his ears.

"What's up?" asked Miles as he too came to a stop just behind them, and then he could hear it too. "Wait, is that what I think it is?"

"Why would anyone play the piano at a time like this?" asked Amy, confused.

"Who cares?" asked Ryan, already moving on ahead, trying to follow the sound. "If someone's playing the piano, it means that someone's still alive!"

"Hey dude, wait up!" called Miles as the others followed after their leader, down the street and then turning a left at the junction at the very end. Ryan stopped at an area just before where an underpass cutting through the bottom of an apartment block began. There was a room just above the underpass, and the music seemed to be originating from the open double windows on the wall looking out over the street, the white net curtains billowing freely in the light breeze.

The song was slow and melancholic, and it seemed to fit the atmosphere pretty well. In fact, if one listened enough, they could pick up on the pure despair and sadness that dripped off of every note.

"Coming from in there," said Ryan, pointing to the opened windows.

"But who could it be?" asked Miles as he guided Michelle towards the others, even as Amy suddenly had a brain spark.

"It must be him," she said softly.

"Him?" asked Ryan, turning around.

"They say Alexander Gould lives in this part of town…you know, the up-and-coming piano player."

"Oh, that guy," replied Ryan, nodding. "They say he was destined for great things…his last solo show at Warren Hall sold out in minutes. Shame I couldn't get some myself…"

"Hey, I never pegged you as a fan of classical," scoffed Miles from behind.

"I wasn't," replied Ryan darkly as he turned round. "Grant forced me to try and get them, because he was a massive Alex Gould fan…"

"Oh," said Miles quietly, turning his head away, feeling somewhat guilty at the fact he had reminded Ryan about the good friend he had lost, just hours past. "Look, I'm sorry man, I didn't-"

"The music stopped," said Amy suddenly, and the others fell silent, finding that she was right: all they could hear now was the cold autumn wind blowing down the streets and the nearby moaning of undead citizens.

"Is anyone there?" yelled Ryan suddenly, cupping his hands as he directed his shout at the open windows. Only silence greeted him, and he looked back at the others, his face unsure. After a few seconds, he turned back to look up at the windows, and shouted once again. "Hello? Alexander Gould? Anyone?"

He was about ready to give up then and there when he discerned movement through the double windows, before the net curtains were pulled away, and the windows opened fully, as someone came into view.

"Look!" cried Amy, pointing.

A young man in his mid 20's, clean-shaven and with well-groomed raven black hair, stepped slowly out onto the window ledge, dressed in impeccable black dress pants and a buttoned-up white shirt, the collars unbuttoned and flowing loose. He stared straight ahead of him, taking no notice of the young people standing below him, even though they stood plain in the middle of the street.

"Hey!" cried Amy, waving her hands. "Down here!"

"Something's wrong," said Ryan as he noted the far away look in Alex Gould's eyes, fresh tears staining his well-chiselled cheeks. The man was completely focused on the exact task he had in mind, but what task that was wasn't immediately apparent.

Then the man raised one leg and held it out before him, and the others immediately knew what was going to happen next.

"No don't!" cried Ryan, but it was too late.

Alex Gould stepped forward into thin air, and simply let the rest of his body fall forward, flipping head first so he was sailing towards the tarmac back-first, his arms and legs held out limply, accepting his fate fully. He didn't even cry out or make any other sound.

The group of survivors turned their heads away in time to avoid the moment he hit the ground with a sickening crack of his neck and several other major bones in his body breaking like twigs.

"Fuck," whispered Miles, his head twisted away, clutching one hand around Michelle's head so she wouldn't see it as well. God knows she'd already seen enough shit to last anyone a life time so far. After a few seconds, he slowly looked back, as the others gradually did as well to examine Alexander Gould's body.

"Oh Jesus," muttered Ryan, as he looked at the young music prodigy's body, his neck so badly twisted off to the side that he didn't even need to check that he was dead for sure. The man's eyes were closed peacefully, showing that his actions had been intentional: death was what he wanted.

"Oh God," whispered Amy as she knelt down next to the young man's body, before she noticed something folded up in his left shirt pocket, and carefully reached out and retrieved it, finding it was a folded up piece of paper. "What's this?" she then asked, as she carefully unfolded it, and found some handwriting on the page.

"What's that?" asked Ryan, as Amy read over the precise handwriting, in black ink, before her.

_It has been exactly 3 hours, 22 minutes and 41 seconds since I last saw you, my dear Melody. The same time when one of those 'zombies' grabbed onto you and ripped out the side of your throat, while I stood by, powerless to do anything._

_Mt beautiful Melody…I remember the day we first met, after my concert at Warren Hall. I was besotted at first sight, and could think of nothing else when we were apart. When you agreed to meet, I felt that I was complete…nothing could hold me back. It seemed funny as well, that your name related to music, my lifeblood, my career._

_But now…there is nothing left in this world to make me stay. Those monsters have risen from the depths of hell itself, and now lay waste to all around them. And they have taken everything dear to me: I could not even return to save your body. Even my parents and my friends…all killed like wild animals. _

_So I have penned one last work, in memory of my sweet Melody, of the love I have lost, of everything this city has lost. Anything to drown out the sound of those ungodly things in the streets outside. I name it, 'No Hope Left'. I hope that anyone who finds my body will at least let this small piece of me to escape this cursed place, so the world will know of what we all lost._

_Alexander Gould_

"A suicide note," she replied eventually, passing it to Ryan, who quickly skimmed over it and shook his head slowly.

"The poor bastard lost everything…couldn't go on," he sighed, before turning it over and realising that the message had been written on the back of some blank sheet music, which had been filled in with a long series of notes and chords: a full song, presumably the same one that he had been playing when they came along.

"…and this is his last work."

"Damn it," sighed Miles, shaking his head. "Seems like everyone's just giving up instead of soldiering on."

"I know," replied Ryan, as he folded the music back up and tucked it into one of his jeans pockets. "And I think the least we can do for this guy is to make sure his final work leaves this city."

Before they could discuss their next move, the ringing of Ryan's cell phone cut through the air, making them all jump in surprise, having been a while since they had last heard its ring tone. Ryan looked around a bit, and then quickly patted at his clothes frantically, finally pulling the phone free from his jacket pocket and looking at the caller ID. "It's Zac!"

"Zac?" asked Miles, before smiling a little. "Oh thank God he's still in one piece," he then added, as Ryan immediately pressed the talk button and lifted the receiver to his ear.

"Zac! You allright man?"

"…yeah," replied Zac's voice, sounding extremely tired and drawn. "Listen Ryan, you know those soldiers I told you about?"

"Yeah?"

"They're all dead."

Ryan paused for a while to let this information sink in, his mouth starting to dry out. "What?"

"Yeah," replied Zac. "Apparently, their back-up never stuck around and their leader lost it…they gunned themselves down, and the other civilians they were supposed to be defending."

"Holy shit," muttered Ryan, shaking his head. "But you're allright?"

"Yes, I'm fine," replied Zac, still sounding a little out of it. "But I have no clue what I'm supposed to do next. We can't even rely on the ones supposed to be helping us out!"

"Where are you dude?" asked Ryan, trying to change the subject. There was a long pause, along with a bit of background interference, before the reply finally came.

"I have no idea," sighed Zac, "but I can see St Michael's Clock Tower from where I am."

"OK, that means you're in the North area of town, near the hospital," reasoned Ryan. "You should try heading there, or to the clock tower-"

"But they're both overrun as well most likely, just like everywhere else in this damned town!" yelled Zac back. "There's no damned point! There's no hope left for any of us! We'd be better off lying in the gutter and letting those damned things have a buffet-"

"Zac!" said Ryan loudly, and the other end became silent, save for some stressed breathing from Zac in the background. Ryan looked up at the others, who showed great concern as they listened in on every word.

"I'm sorry," said Zac eventually. "Guess this is getting too much for me. What about you guys? Did you have any more luck?"

Ryan sighed in annoyance before replying. "No…still stuck in this hell hole. We're in Arklay Heights right now. Couldn't get out of the city, most of the roads are blocked off."

"Well guess our only option would be to try and tough it out," replied Zac. "I mean, they have to send the cavalry in sooner or later."

"You might be right dude," replied Ryan. "We're probably best off looking for some shelter as well."

"How are the others holding up?" asked Zac, and Ryan bit his lip in contemplation before replying.

"Amy's fine…and so is Miles," he began. "But Patrick…Patrick's gone, he just ran off and he's as good as dead. And Harold…he died and came back as one of those things-"

"-just like in the Biohazard movies," said Zac, interrupting Ryan's statement.

"This isn't a damned movie," hissed Ryan. "Trust me, it was no fun me having to smash his head in with my bat. And Michelle's been in a real state since it happened as well, hasn't said a word."

"Damn it," sighed Zac, after which there was a pause before Ryan heard the sound of a trash can being knocked over in the background, and Zac's panicked voice calling out. "What was that?"

"Zac, you allright?" asked Ryan with concern, as he heard some more background noise in his ear.

"Aw shit!" cried Zac's muffled voice, just as another sound was heard: a high-pitched shriek noise, that didn't sound like anything that Ryan had heard beforehand.

"Zac, what the hell was that?" he asked frantically, before he heard Zac crying out, and then the phone line suddenly cut out.

"Zac?" asked Ryan, his heart jumping into his throat. "Zac? Zac!"

"What's wrong?" asked Amy from next to Ryan.

"We got cut off," sighed Ryan in frustration, looking at the screen of his cell phone, before turning to look at the redhead. "Sounds like something attacked him."

"You mean a zombie?" asked Miles.

"No…sounded like something else," replied Ryan. "Something I've never heard before."

"So what then?" asked Miles, before saying the one thing that was on everyone's minds right then and there. "Are there other things aside from the zombies out there? There worse things we need to worry about?" There was a long silence afterwards as their minds ran rampant thinking of any number of horrific monsters that their worst nightmares could conjure.

"I hope not," said Ryan, dispelling that uneasy feeling in the air, before looking back at the cell phone screen before him. "I just hope that he's allright…"

* * *

Zac looked over his shoulder as he ran down that back street, his heart pounding in his chest, his legs moving with much greater urgency than normal. His eyes were focused on the narrow alley he had initially emerged from, and his breath cut out when he saw the green-skinned being crawl around the corner, clinging to the wall with its six wickedly-clawed limbs, perfectly supporting its sinewy body.

_Oh God!_

He had no idea what the hell it was supposed to be. To his eyes, it resembled some sort of cockroach spat out of the mouth of hell itself, its head set with a pair of silvery, beady eyes that regarded him with a malign intelligence, its mouth dripping with sticky drool. He had nearly lost control of his bowels when he first saw it, sliding with ease out of an upstairs window just above his head and shrieking at him. He had fled, dropping his cell phone and breaking it in the process, losing his one link to his friends elsewhere in the city.

The creature shrieked again and launched itself off of the wall, seeming to soar through the air as it landed heavily on top of a black sedan abandoned in the alleyway, with enough force to actually dent the roof, the sudden force shattering the door windows and sending glass raining down onto the ground.

"Oh Jesus!" cried Zac as he turned away and pushed himself to run harder, even as he heard the monster land on the ground and start clawing after him, its clawed feet making a steady _click click _sound as it bounded after him. He felt sweat running down the back of his neck, half expecting the monster to suddenly grab onto him from behind, its claw tearing into his skin and flesh before it sank its teeth into his soft, juicy neck.

He saw a black door ahead of him, partially open, practically begging him to just dive inside and shut the monster out.

"Come on!" he yelled to himself as he sprinted for the door, almost popping his arm out of its socket as he reached out and pulled it open, throwing himself behind it and looking up at his pursuer one last time.

The cockroach-from-hell was now standing on its hind legs now, rushing towards him in a rather unsteady-gait, swaying its torso from side to side and flailing its clawed limbs wildly. It would be an almost comical sight, if the creature didn't want to rip him into bloody shreds.

He slammed the door shut, his shoulder pressed up against it as firmly as he could manage, and then sliding the latch into place, just as something heavy slammed against the door, nearly throwing him onto his ass, but he pushed up against the door once more, desperate to shut the demonic creature out. It shrieked wildly as it slammed against the door a few more times, and then everything fell silent.

Zac panted hard as he stared at the plain surface of the door, and then he finally allowed himself to relax, turning around and pushing up against the door, slowly sliding down into a seated position, the blood pumping in his ears slowly returning to a regular, steady rhythm.

"Oh God," he whispered, blinking away the tears. "Oh God!"

It was bad enough when he saw Emma killed by her own father, ripped into like a wild animal's prey. It was even worse when he could see the zombies swarming the streets like locusts, killing everyone they could reach. But what he had just seen…that bug-like monster with the sickle-like claws- it took the proverbial biscuit. Thousands of zombies paled in comparison to that thing.

He looked around, taking in his surroundings, seeing that he was inside what looked like a mechanic's garage, complete with a red sedan, missing its rear wheels, raised up on a hydraulic ramp in the middle of the building, a steel bench across from him covered in tools, a large oil stain in the far corner, in front of the closed steel shutters leading outside. He could also see a plain front door, giving him another means of leaving this building, and another means of escape.

"Oh thank God," he sighed.

_Crash!_

His heart jumped again as something smashed through the glass window to the left of the door he leaned up against, and he lowered his arms to see an all-too familiar form perched on the concrete floor, just a few yards away from him.

"Aw fuck!" he half-screamed as he forced himself to stand, facing his relentless pursuer down. The bug monster took a tentative step towards him, a low clicking sound emanating from its mandibles, before it let off an abrupt burst of a shriek and it began to claw itself forward at a more rapid pace.

Zac stumbled backwards, his eyes scanning frantically to find something, anything he could use to defend himself with. He bumped up against a wooden work top, and he glanced back to see a deep red monkey wrench sitting in plain sight. He looked down at it and back at his enemy, which now raised itself up onto its hind legs and prepared to charge again, at which point he grabbed the wrench and swung it around in a wide arc.

There was a slimy _crack _sound as the wrench impacted against its jaw, knocking it sideways and off of its feet onto its back, trailing green blood as it fell. Zac stared down at it, eyes wide in surprise as he continued to clutch the bloody wrench in his hands. The monster lay on its back, legs flailing in the air like a beetle that had been flipped over, trying to right itself, and Zac knew he had to use the moment of respite wisely to find some other way to defend himself other than an old rusty wrench.

His eyes settled on the raised hydraulic ramp, something heavy enough to do some serious damage is used correctly.

_Hope this works…_

He dashed over towards the ramp controls, a small pad attached to the ramp by a sturdy black electrical cable, just as the monster righted itself, swinging around to face the prey that had delayed its inevitable death for too long now. Green blood continued to drip from its head wound as it scuttled towards him at a more rapid pace now.

Zac waited until it came a little closer, within striking range, and then he frantically stabbed at the button for the down control, and there was a loud whine of hydraulics as the ramp rattled in place, as though resisting its command as a way to just spite Zac before his blood was spilt.

_Come on, come on!_

The creature suddenly paused underneath the ramp, glancing up almost as though it were wondering where the sound of creaking steel was coming from-

-and then the hydraulic lift dropped suddenly, crushing the monster underneath the combined weight of a solid steel car lift and a standard-sized car. Zac heard the crunching of many bones and a shriek of agony as green blood splattered all around the lowered lift. He watched with morbid fascination as the dust cleared and he saw a few spindly legs continue to twitch for a few seconds like a bug that had just been crushed underfoot, and then finally became still.

Zac tossed the lift controls to the ground, laughing in blessed relief at his amazing luck. If that lift had stalled and remained where it was, he would likely be a dead man by now. He looked down at the bug monster's crushed and broken corpse, a large pool of green fluid continuing to spread beneath its form. Squashed like a bug…a fitting fate, he thought.

Just then, he heard that damned clicking sound again and his eyes snapped over towards the broken window just as another unknown form dragged itself into the garage. It looked similar to the one he had just killed, except where the first one was thin and sinewy; this one was a lot broader in build, its vomit-green skin covering a bulbous body, though it still retained the sickle-like claws. But whereas the first monster had just one head, this one actually had _two _heads, each one inset with silvery eyes and mandibles dripping with a foul green fluid that hissed as it touched the ground.

"Oh no!" he cried, immediately turning away and making a dash for the exit door, as the new monster scuttled across the ceiling towards him, shrieking in a similar manner to the first one. Zac was just in the process of pulling the door open just as the monster detached itself from the ceiling, flipping over in mid-air and landing gracefully on its claws.

Zac was halfway through the door into the open street when something hooked onto his backpack and yanked him backwards, but he grabbed onto the edge of the door and stayed on his feet, as he felt the rancid breath of something unspeakable on the back of his neck.

"Get off!" he screamed, before he wriggled frantically and slipped out of his backpack, throwing himself out onto the street and throwing the door shut behind him as he went, the two-headed bug monster shrieking wildly inside. Zac remained on his knees for a few seconds more, panting in relief, before glancing back over his shoulder at the closed door, waiting for the creature to break out and come screaming towards him, but nothing happened.

_Shit, I really liked that pack…but I should at least be glad I wasn't still wearing it…_

He forced himself to stand, looking around at the street he was in, which was thankfully empty of zombies. Then he looked to the north, and he saw the unmistakable outline of St Michael's Clock Tower, not too far away, its grand clock face frozen in place.

"Find somewhere to lay low…sure," he said to himself, before setting off towards his destination.

**A/N: And there we have it. A little disappointed that I focused a bit too much on the U.B.C.S survivors in this chapter, so I'm hoping that most of the next chapter will focus more on the other civilian survivors in the city. **

**Also, a quick note about Zac killing the Drain Diemos by dropping the hydraulic ramp on its head. That scenario was inspired by my recent experiences within the 'Lost in Nightmares' DLC scenario for Resident Evil 5, whereby at one point you find yourself trapped in the partially-flooded basement, without any guns, being pursued by the new 'Guardians of Insanity' enemy, and so the only way around them is to lure them underneath sections of spiked ceiling that drop when you give your partner the word: very satisfying. **

**Anyway, R+R as normal please.**


	8. The Cost

Chapter 8: The Cost

**September 26****th**** 2019 hours**

Tobias Greene scribbled yet another name down on the sheet of paper before him, for what seemed like the umpteenth time that day. He then flipped the paper over and clipped it onto the nearby keyboard, beginning to build up a nice thick collection of paper sheets. He had already lost count of how many people had come through the checkpoint so far, but it was at least a hundred, he guessed.

He stepped back as a pair of troopers hurried by, carrying a large metal storage box between them, no doubt filled with fresh medical supplies flown in by helicopter. Even with support from the garrison's air division, they were quickly finding themselves stretched thing, and Lieutenant Fletcher was quickly dropping into a foul mood. Not only did those choppers which entered the air space a few hours back not only ignored any attempts to contact them directly, but now it was coming back that Petrucci's boys holding the Arklay Pass had opened fire on civilians seeking refuge when they were attacked by unknown enemies, killing at least a dozen of innocents in front of several national news crews.

Already he could hear the officer's barking voice from nearby, and he glanced up to see a sergeant go scurrying from the command tent, looking red-faced, before he started yelling at his own squad, chasing them away to their posts.

The corporal was finding himself questioning what was happening more and more now, wondering if all of this was connected to the mystery phone call from before. Though the caller's condescending tone still rankled his nose as he thought about it, he seemed pretty clued up about what was happening, and it didn't seem to bother him one bit.

He'd have to try and call the man when he got a moment reprieve. He doubted the man would tell him anything vital, but it was at least worth a try. He didn't like being kept in the dark, after all. But when he heard the rotors of an incoming Blackhawk chopper and glanced up to see Corporal Parkman's patrol coming in, he knew that a few more bodies would inevitably be added to the roster of refugees from Raccoon City- or what was left of it.

"Come on, let's get busy!" he cried to the medics around him as he tossed his paperwork aside and made a move to aid his comrades as the Blackhawk touched down on the dirt ground just outside of where the refugee tent was pitched, Corporal Parkman being the first to touch down.

"We got a few more for you, unfortunately," barked Parkman over the roaring rotor blades, "one of them is unconscious but stable!" As if to punctuate his point, the two support gunners carried out a middle-aged man wearing a blue shirt and grey jeans, along with brown work boots and thin-framed spectacles. His eyes were closed, blood streaming from a large gash on his left temple.

"OK, get him into the med tent and check him over," ordered Tobias, as one of the medics followed the stretcher man back towards a white tent with a large red cross stencilled on the top, while Parkman's men helped four more people off of the chopper. All were in one piece and fairly lucid, save for one young woman who had a good 1,000 yard stare on her. Tobias didn't dwell on that feature as she was guided away.

"You heading back?" he then yelled.

"Not right away," replied Parkman as the support gunners moved around to do other things. "We have to refuel, then we head back in. It's chaos Tobias, utter chaos!"

"I can gather," muttered Greene, looking back towards the smoky columns in the near distance.

* * *

Lenny Bristol wandered down the street in an almost meandering fashion, not taking any notice of the fresh blood splattered across the lower half of his shirt, or indeed the coagulated splatters across his cheeks. He held his Beretta sidearm tightly in his right fist, almost as though he was fused with the weapon. The sidewalks were littered with trash and smears of blood when the zombies had swept through, though thankfully the undead had moved on…for now.

He was still somewhere within the suburbs, not too far from Pine Avenue, though it had felt much further. Having totally failed to find his family in that broken house; aside from his beloved pet which had subsequently transformed into a monster and had to be killed with his own bare hands. Then with nothing else to go on, he had been forced to flee as the zombies closed in on him.

His shotgun was gone now, when he had gone through the last shells he had in tearing through nearly two dozen of those bastards at once, not because they were in his way, but because he just wanted to burn off some steam. And so he was reduced to just his handgun, along with a couple of spare magazines which wouldn't last him very long if he bumped into another large crowd of zombies with no other way around them. And he still had his nightstick as well, but getting too close to these monsters…no chance.

He looked up and paused when he saw the large building at the far end of the road he was on, practically untouched by all of the madness engulfing the city. It was a small church, its lone spire reaching up towards the smoke-filled heavens, the front double doors untouched, even if the steps leading up to the doors were littered with trash and other detritus from this disaster. He recognised the building instantly- it was Father Michael's Church, the one attended by most of the people around this part of town.

"Father Michael," he whispered, looking behind him to check that nothing had followed him this far, and then back at the Church. "Seems it is protected by God after all."

Knowing that the Church had been used many times as an emergency shelter, most recently during the rather harsh winter of 1997, he gathered that someone may be hiding out within the building's undercroft, as safe and secure as any home basement. It wouldn't hurt to at least go and take a look, so without a second thought he ascended the stone stairs and approached the closed doors, throwing them open with ease.

The heavy oak doors creaked loudly as they swung shut behind him, completely sealing off any outside background noise. The Church was a fairly old building, and as such the stone walls were fairly thick, preventing any sound getting out or in. He scanned the Church's entry annex, noting how clean and tidy it was, considering the general chaos outside. The green carpet under his feet was spotless, the coat racks across from him still holding a few garments, Although the numerous wooden chairs that were normally lined up against the side walls were missing. Where had they gone?

Lenny didn't waste anymore time in pushing through the large double doors into the main Church hall, a room of rather modest size, half a dozen rows of pews and the stone altar at the far side taking up most of the hall, whereas the far wall was decorated with a large stained glass window showing a religious scene that Lenny for the life of him couldn't recall to mind right now.

"Hello?" he called, his voice reverberating through the stone hall. He moved forwards cautiously, his handgun readied in case a zombie were to make itself known suddenly. Though they were pretty stupid they were capable of launching somewhat effective ambushes on unwary survivors. He had made it halfway down the central aisle when the all-too familiar stench of blood wafted into his nostrils, and he stopped in his tracks.

"Oh no," he said to himself, moving forward at a slower pace now, his feet scuffing and squeaking against the wooden floorboards. Soon enough he had cleared the aisle, and fell silent when he saw the bloody stains across the ground, and the grisly scene before him.

He had found the missing chairs from the foyer. They were all here, and unfortunately each one had a dead body tied to it by the hands and ankles with thick rope, duct tape covering their mouths to keep them silent. Most of the chairs were on their side, blood pooling beneath them, but one of the chairs remained upright, the man sat in it with his head leaned right back, crimson liquid staining the front of his grey shirt and his jeans.

"Oh shit," whispered Lenny as he lowered his Beretta and slowly approached the bloodbath, recognising the man sat up in the lone upright chair. It was Mitchell Burrows, owner of the local hardware store, a middle-aged man known for his kind and cheery demeanour, as well as his numerous charitable deeds towards regeneration of the inner city. Except now he was long dead, a ragged hole bored right in the middle of his forehead. Looking around, he could see clearly that they had all been killed in the exact same manner…and that they were all human when killed. Their wide open green, blue and brown eyes put paid to that.

"What the hell?" he whispered to himself as he looked over the bodies. This was a deliberate act of mass murder…during a zombie outbreak, of all things.

He heard a muffled voice form behind him and whirled around, drawing his Beretta as he did so, aiming at a previously unseen-figure. He stopped himself when he saw that it was yet another figure tied to a chair, a brown-haired teenage male, wearing faded grey jeans and a white vest, rocking side to side in his restraints, shaking his head frantically. His blue eyes were wide and terrified. Lenny slowly lowered his weapon, staring in disbelief.

"Another child seeks sanctuary?" asked another male voice, with a noticeable Irish accent.

Lenny swung around to face the wooden pulpit, as another figure stepped out into direct view: a fairly tall, middle-aged man with greying hair, a well-trimmed goatee beard and deep blue eyes. He wore black dress pants, polished black leather shoes and a dark grey dress shirt, stained with blood splatters. There was a white dog collar at his neck, and he clutched a set of rosary beads in his left hand, his right hand clutched behind his back.

"Father Michael!" said Lenny as he lowered his sidearm, as the priest stopped before the altar, looking up at the stained glass window.

"So you yet live, Lenny," said the Father, speaking as though he was having a pleasant conversation at the weekend. "I am happy to see that you have avoided our Lord's retribution."

"Lord's retribution?" asked Lenny, casting a quick glance over at the bound teenager, who continued to struggle wildly.

"Those rotting shells out there," stated the priest, pointing towards the double doors leading out of the church hall. "The ones who wander the streets, feeding upon those who remain."

"Oh those things," replied Lenny, sarcastically. "Yeah, that is some sort of retribution allright." Since the cop didn't have a logical explanation for this mess yet, his mind was going through all possible scenarios. One of them involved God's wrath being visited upon the land, and frankly at this point he was willing to believe anything.

"Indeed, my child," replied Father Michael, turning away from the altar to look straight at Lenny, his face completely straight. "The monsters have been unleashed upon the world because we have not mended our sinful ways. Was I not a good priest? Was I not a good teacher of the Lord's teachings?" The priest's tone was becoming more forceful as his monologue continued, before he finally sighed deeply and turned away.

Lenny paused for a few moments before he spoke up again. "Father Michael, what happened here?" he asked, indicating the bodies with a sweep of his arm. "Who killed these people?"

"-but there is still some hope for salvation," the priest continued, ignoring Lenny's questions. He moved his right hand out before him now. Lenny's eyes widened when he saw the object held in Father Michael's hand- a huge wooden stake, covered in fresh blood, along with the priest's hand.

"Father Michael?" asked Lenny, his voice starting to waver. "What's that for?" He pointed straight at the weapon, but the priest still ignored him.

"Our Lord intends to challenge his flock's piety," continued Father Michael, walking over towards the bound teenager, who rocked in his seat even more frantically as the priest approached. "My beautiful Katie has already been taken from me…my beautiful child…"

The priest's voice broke as he spoke that last part, and Lenny knew that the man was referring to his only daughter Katie, widely regarded as the most beautiful girl in the entire city. The priest removed a small golden locket from one of his shirt pockets and flicked it open, taking a wistful glance at the picture of the beautiful girl inside, before snapping it shut and tucking it away again, his eyes beginning to tear up.

"…my Lord intends to challenge my devotion," stated Father Michael, his voice becoming more firm. "And I will prove my faith, in purging this land clean," he finished, suddenly grabbing onto the bound teenager's face with his left hand and brandishing his stake menacingly.

"Father Michael," said Lenny in a concerned tone, and he glanced around at the bodies once more, finally noticing the bottle of chloroform and a white rag lying on the empty lectern where the church bible was normally kept. Only then did his mind start to piece together what exactly had transpired here. The bloody stake in the priest's hand, the chloroform, the bodies tied up, the ragged holes bored through their foreheads-

_Oh God-_

His police instincts kicking in, Lenny drew his sidearm in one swift motion and aimed it at Father Michael's torso. "Father Michael!" The priest paused and slowly turned to face Lenny, his face remaining vacant. "What the hell have you done?"

"I have undertaken God's work, my child," replied the priest, as though it were blatantly obvious. "The hollow ones have come to cleanse this land of the unfaithful. Only once the land is cleansed of the non-believers will our world be saved!"

"And what, you think driving a stake through their heads will help?" asked Lenny, sweeping a hand over the fallen corpses. "What was their sin? Wanting to take refuge from the madness outside?"

"They were all damned from the start!" roared Father Michael angrily, turning on Lenny, pointing the stake towards him, his blue eyes brimming with fury. "Only seeking to save their own skins while the world was destroyed around them!"

"Stop it!" cried Lenny, taking a step forwards. "You're a good man, Father Michael! I don't want to do this!"

"God's work must be completed!" continued Father Michael, grabbing onto the young man's jaw and forcing his neck backwards so he faced skywards. The man's mumblings were desperate and incoherent now; his eyes set to burst out of his sockets at any moment. "Any I shall not shirk from my duties as shepherd…"

"Put the stake down!" screamed Lenny, but the priest did not respond, even as he started to raise the stake in his right hand.

"One more heathen for God's blessing," whispered Father Michael, raising the stake even higher.

"Don't!" screamed Lenny, the gun starting to shake in his hands as he aimed at Father Michael's back.

"Look upon the face of God!" screamed the priest as he thrust the stake down, punching it straight through the bound man's forehead.

_Crack!_

There was a hideous sound of bone breaking as the thick wooden shaft broke through the young man's forehead, blood spraying up in a great geyser which covered Father Michael's face and front. The young man froze in place, eyes frozen wide open, and his body twitched a few times involuntarily. Lenny pulled the trigger shortly afterwards.

BANG!

The bullet smacked into the left side of Father Michael's back, and the priest barked out a cough and rocked forward, before he released his grip on the stake, and he fell backwards onto the ground, the body tied to the chair falling onto its side from the sudden motion, the stake sliding out from the ragged wound and blood gushing out across the wooden boards.

Lenny just stared straight ahead, at the spot where Father Michael used to be standing a few seconds ago, breathing harshly and blinking a few times, in shock at what he had just done. Father Michael was a pillar of this community, a kind man, the same one who had christened Lenny's son 5 years prior.

And now that same man had taken the lives of half a dozen of Raccoon's citizens, thinking that he was doing his Lord's work.

The wheezing sound of the priest trying to breathe bought Lenny back to the here and now, and he looked down into the wide eyes of Father Michael, as blood pooled underneath his form, the priest struggling to take in air, his arms laid out either side of him. Lenny guessed that his shot had ripped through one of the man's lungs. There was no saving him from that.

Father Michael managed one last wheeze, blood gargling in the back of his throat, before his chest lifted up a few inches, his eyes rolled into the back of his skull, and then he finally lay still, his head tilted off to the side. Lenny stared down at the priest's body for several more seconds, frozen in place, before he felt something contract within his stomach region.

Finally turning away from the scene, he dropped his gun and ran to the nearest pew, leaning over and retching, coughing violently as waves of disgust coursed through his body. Disgust at what he had just done. He had shot a man, a human being, not a zombie…

…granted, a human being who had brutally murdered a number of innocent civilians- but all in the belief that he was doing the right thing, that he was doing God's work; even after the horrors of the zombie outbreak had shattered his mind and taken away the most precious thing to him.

Lenny continued to stand for a few moments, just breathing slowly, before he forced himself to stand, groggily, and then stooping down to retrieve his pistol, checking it over before tucking it away into its holster as his police training and instinct started to kick in again. He crossed over to the body of Father Michael's latest victim, staying at least a dozen yards away. He could tell from that distance that the man was dead, an ugly hole bored through his forehead and into his skull. The murder weapon lay a few inches away from the body, slick with fresh crimson. Normally, he would be gathering the evidence for forensics and making notes of anything out of place, but that was frankly pointless- there was no-one left to care about every brutal murder in this city now.

He turned away and shook his head, before looking up at the great stained glass window looking over the entire grisly scene, closer scrutinising the scene depicted on it. When he looked closer, he suddenly realised that it depicted the moment when Jesus ascended to heaven following his resurrection. He wondered if he was going to do the same when he had passed on, or if he would be damned forever because of what he had just done. He lowered his head.

"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned," he whispered. "I have done a terrible thing." But no-one was around to hear his confession.

* * *

Steven stood on a glass-windowed overpass tunnel somewhere in downtown Raccoon City, gazing out over the scene laid out before him.

Several wrecked cars dotted the wide road before him, some of them issuing black smoke or ever flames from their destroyed engine blocks from where they had crashed head-on into walls or street lamps. A few corpses littered the tarmac, their blood running freely into nearby drains, but plenty more of those sick-looking people wandered to and fro, moaning hungrily and gathering around fallen corpses to gorge themselves though a few just stood in place, staring dumbly straight ahead of them.

What had that wounded soldier called them…zombies? It seemed to fit: these things seemed devoid of any human emotion, only seeking to feed upon any fresh carcasses they could find. And they were almost impossible to kill too, unless a precise attack was aimed at their heads. More and more Steven was finding himself thinking back to that line from the classic zombie flick he had seen a couple of times in his youth.

_When there's no more room in hell, the dead shall walk the earth._

Indeed, he was so focused on his thoughts that he almost didn't see the shambling figure lurch at him from the left.

He hopped back in surprise, nearly falling onto his ass as the creature moaned weakly. It had one been a middle-aged African American male, except now his skin was an ashen grey colouration, his light blue padded jacket nicked with several cuts and his beige pants badly torn, one leg entirely exposed, along with the several bite wounds just below his knee. The man moaned weakly and reached out with bony fingers.

_Sorry…_

Steven raised his fire axe in both hands, bought it back, and then swung it around, slamming the blade into the man's neck with a dull 'thunk' of flesh and bone being severed. The man was knocked off of his feet, his head nearly severed fully, and he hit the ground hard, blood spurting out from his neck region. Steven nearly fell himself as the heavy weight of the axe threatened to pull him over with its momentum. He managed to swing the blade back a few steps, staring in horror at the mess he had just made of that 'zombie'.

"Jesus!" he whispered, staring at the blood pumping from the horrific neck wound, before he moved on quickly, not dwelling on the scene for too long. He quickly descended the stone steps he found at the far end of the overpass, and then cut down a smaller side street, away from the loitering creatures he had spied previously.

This street seemed to be in a better state than the rest of the city, the only cars he could see being parked at the side of the road, and none of the store fronts smashed in. He couldn't even see any bodies either, undead or otherwise, and he allowed himself a brief moment of relief. He moved on up the street, passing past the front window of an electronics store. He glanced over at the numerous TV sets displayed in the window, and he saw that most of them still had power.

He stepped closer, seeing that every one of the TV's was showing the Emergency Broadcast: a backdrop of brightly coloured squares, with automated messages running across the bottom of the image in block capitals.

'_ALL CIVILIANS PLEASE REPORT TO YOUR NEAREST EMERGENCY SHELTER. PLEASE BRING AT LEAST ONE ITEM OF IDENTIFICATION AND NO MORE LUGGAGE ABOVE A SINGLE CASE OR BAG. REMAIN CALM AT ALL TIMES-'_

And so on. Though looking around at the general mess the city was in, he wondered if there were any people left to heed such messages, though it seemed highly doubtful. Within a few hours the normally peaceful city had been totally turned on its head, and plenty of people were dead. What the hell had happened exactly for something like this to happen, and so quickly as well?

He turned away from the store front and began to walk up the street again, towards where he could see a crashed ambulance at the top of a gentle slope. And beyond that…he didn't know. He wasn't exactly overtly familiar with this part of town, and he couldn't figure out what he was meant to do next. The emergency line on his phone was still dead, and he wondered if anyone from the police was even still alive.

Just as he was thinking those thoughts, he heard the screeching of tyres and whipped around in time to see a black and white police cruiser screech around the corner at the far bottom end of the road, its red and blue lights blaring, but its siren silent. He just stood there, staring in amazement.

_Thank God!_

He moved into the centre of the street, waving his arms above his head, and his heart lifted when he saw that the cruiser was coming towards him, clearly eager to help him. He felt himself smile a little, his luck finally starting to-

_Wait a second…_

-except the cruiser was driving straight at him, moving at nearly twice the legal speed limit, and he lowered his arms, just standing there dumbstruck as the car came closer and closer. Within a few seconds, it was barely yards away and he saw the two people sat in the front weren't dressed like law enforcement officers.

_Move you idiot!_

At his mind's shout, he threw himself to the side, landing among the relative safety of a load of filled trash bags lying next to a bus stop. The car screeched past him as a blur, barely slowing down at all. As it did, he heard the manic laughter of a pair of young voices.

"Dude, you missed that son of a bitch!"

Steven struggled to his feet with some difficulty, in time to see the cruiser slam its brakes on and do a 180 turn to face him again, leaving deep black tread marks on the tarmac. As it did, the side passenger window opened and a young man wearing a tattered leather jacket and jeans leaned out, laughing and jeering. Peering through the windscreen, he could see another man in similar street attire, pointing at Steven directly.

_Gangbangers…great._

Even with all the death and destruction going on around them, some idiots thought it would be fun to steal a police cruiser and try to mow down the last remaining humans in the city.

"Well I won't miss him this time!" laughed the man leaning out the window, before reaching inside and pulling out an aluminium baseball bat, taking a few practice swings with it into the thin air. Then he was waving his free arm in a circular motion, and the cruiser started to squeal its tyres once again.

_Oh this is turning out to be a real lousy day!_

Steven turned and ran as fast as he could, nearly tripping over the damned trash bags again as he went, and soon he was sprinting back in the direction he had originally come, desperately searching for any kind of escape he could use. He could hear the squealing of accelerating tyres and the frantic whoops of the ganbangers coming after him.

"You're a dead man bitch!" yelled the one leaning out the window, winding up for a swing with his baseball bat. Steven glanced behind him briefly enough to see the Cruiser mount the sidewalk to give the passenger time to line up a swing. Cursing, the Englishman dropped down in time to avoid having his head taken off his shoulders, and he felt the breeze rustle his hair as he stumbled onto his hands and knees, pain shooting through his knee joints as he pressed down on them.

"Damn, you missed him Danny!" shouted the voice of what he assumed was the driver.

"I won't miss next time," retorted Danny as the Cruiser screeched to a halt and began to back up, turning around in the narrow street, while Steven scooped up his fire axe and made a dash for a narrow side street he had spotted just previously. Staying on the main road was suicide, and he had pushed his luck far enough. As the cruiser moved around to face him again, he saw the driver point at him and make a throat slicing motion with his left hand.

He sprinted down the narrow side road, darting around fallen boxes and trashcans, and darting past a couple of zombies that lingered, reaching after him lethargically as he ducked past. Right now, the psychos in the cop cruiser trying to run him down were of much bigger concern. He glanced over his shoulder in time to see the cruiser turn into the alleyway, scattering several cardboard boxes and throwing trash over the windscreen, but the cruiser continued on its deadly course of destruction, mowing down the zombies in its path.

"You can't run forever!" taunted Danny, laughing manically. Steven was almost tempted to agree with the nut job, until he saw that the alleyway ended in a set of stairs, blocked off with a trio of concrete bollards.

"Perfect!" he yelled to himself, darting in between the bollards and descending the steps halfway, looking back up at the alleyway exit, waiting for the two idiots to appear. "Come on, you stupid bastards!" he then called, eager to see these two fools get their commupence.

A few seconds later, the cruiser reappeared, and slammed on its brakes once again. But since the driver had only seen the bollards at the last minute, there was no way he could stop on time.

_Crash!_

The cruiser stopped dead in its tracks, its headlamps and windscreen exploding outwards in a hail of glass shards and electrical sparks, the engine block crumpling like a soda can that had just been stamped on. And then there was a scream as Danny came flying out of the side window, his baseball bat tumbling away as he slammed flailing into a brick wall, his neck snapping as he landed at an awkward angle. Steven stumbled back from the force of the impact, turning away as the tinkling of glass faded away, and then he looked back at the crumpled cruiser, glad that the damned vehicle was disabled.

He laughed in relief, the laughter fading away to a muttered curse as he leaned heavily on his knees. "Shit…" he gasped.

He looked back up as he heard a low groaning, and he saw the figure of the driver coming to his senses through the light screen of black smoke, his face covered in countless small grazes and cuts. He held a hand to his head, and then he noticed his dead companion lying a short distance away, and he cursed loudly.

"Shit, Danny!" he yelled, before looking down towards Steven and drawing a small calibre revolver from his inside jacket pocket, his eyes flashing with rage. "You'll pay for that, you son of a-"

"Damn!" cursed Steven as he turned and ran away, descending the steps at a rapid place and entering another length of passageway, just as the driver lifted his legs up and started kicking out the remaining glass in the cruiser's windshield to give himself an escape route. His angry shouts and threats about what he would do to Steven's privates reverberated around the alleyway as he forced himself free.

Steven ran to each of the doors he found in the next length of passage, trying to rip each one open, but they all remained tight. "Come on!" he yelled, as he rammed his shoulder into one of them, only to bounce straight off. He rubbed at his aching joint and moved on, trying the penultimate door within the alleyway. If this was locked, along with the blue steel door to his far left, then he was as good as dead, as a red brick wall penned him in like a wild animal caught in a noose, ready to be put down by the hunter closing in.

_Click._

"End of the line, asshole!" yelled a frantic voice from behind him, forcing Steven to slowly turn to face the man who had previously been driving the runaway police cruiser, his face marked with at least a dozen small cuts and grazes, the running blood on his scowling face almost making him resemble one of those zombies from before.

"Look," said Steven, turning to face the man and holding his hands out before him in a calming manner. "I'm just trying to get out of this damned place. Just put the gun down-"

"No!" screamed the young man, taking a step forward so he was standing near to a boarded-up window. "No more cops around to enforce the law…I'm having way too much fucking fun to quit now!"

"And that means killing everyone else you find?" asked Steven, hands still raised. The man stepped forward, raising his revolver higher, clearly wound up by that remark.

"Hell, those freaks have already killed most of the city, I thought 'why the hell try and fight it'?" the man retorted, a crazy grin marring his face. "I'm just helping the apocalypse along, that's all. After all, it's no good if things aren't equal."

"How kind of you," replied Steven in a sarcastic fashion.

"Hey, don't you be spitting on my choices!" the man yelled angrily, his hand shaking as the revolver remained fixated on Steven's chest. "You killed my boy Danny, so now I'll return the favour!" Luckily for Steven, the crazed man would never get that chance.

_Crash!_

The wooden boards to the man's left exploding in a shower of splinters, and then a number of rotting, blood-stained arms were reaching through the gap, grabbing onto whatever they could reach.

"Shit! Get away!" screamed the young man, trying to tear his arm free from the bloody fingers that grasped onto his jacket sleeve, pushing the revolver through the newly-formed gap and firing off a few rounds, the sharp retorts cutting through Steven's hearing, though the survivor paid no heed to the sounds as he turned towards the final door within the alleyway and made a beeline for it, ramming into it shoulder first.

The door swung open inwards, revealing a set of stairs leading up into a dark corridor. But right now Steven would take anything he could, and he ascended the stairs rapidly, leaving behind the human screams and the sound of flesh being ripped from the bone behind him. He passed through the threshold of an open doorway at the top of the stairs, emerging into an empty apartment corridor with doors on either side, an elevator at the far end of the corridor.

Steven paused briefly, listening intently to his own breathing and the screams from behind him as they died down, another unfortunate victim of this whole mess. Grated, a victim who had been inches away from blowing Steven's head off of his shoulders, but still somewhat tragic, especially when he considered how many other people they had likely killed on their little rampage.

"Damn it," he sighed to himself, advancing down the corridor he was in now, his shoes squeaking loudly against the polished wooden boards. He glanced at the closed doors he could see, each door painted in fresh blue paint, the door numbers shining brightly in the limited lights that hung overhead. Most of the ones that remained lit flickered on and off, casting the passage into a sinister shade. He was convinced he could see darting figures out of the corner of his eyes, ready to lunge and tear his throat out in a single motion.

He remained as silent as he could as he approached the elevator doors, half-obscured in the darkness of the passageway. Steven quickly pressed at the call button, and the rim of the button immediately lit up, showing that the lift was at least still working. As he listened to the hum of the machinery, he looked back over his shoulder towards the open door where he had entered from. He could hear a very faint moan from somewhere nearby, and then the shuffling of lethargic feet on concrete ground, which made his spine shudder. The zombies were still looking for fresh meat.

_Come on, hurry up…_

He heard the ping of the elevator reaching the floor he was on, and he felt his spirits lifted somewhat, turning back towards the still-closed doors, waiting impatiently for them to open and let him leave this damned place, but more faint moaning could be heard, this time right in front of him, and he froze up.

_Oh no!_

Then there was another loud ping and the doors suddenly parted, revealing nearly half a dozen zombies who had been idly standing in the cramped space, the walls smeared in blood and chunks of flesh. Almost as soon as they had seen him, the undead lurched forwards, arms outstretched eager to feast upon his flesh.

"Oh crap!" blurted Steven, turning to his right and making a dash for the door marked for the stairwell, narrowly avoiding one of the zombies which lunged out at him, missing and falling flat on its face as it did so. He burst through the door and descended them three at a time, not even glancing behind him. The stairwell was empty, thankfully, and he burst through another door into the lobby, close to safety-

-and then he suddenly slammed into somebody who had just been standing there idly, and they both went tumbling to the floor in a heap. Steven coughed as the wind was knocked from his lungs, landing on top of the other person, though he knew fine well that it wasn't someone friendly.

_Oh God no!_

He looked down into the face of a woman with short, stylishly cut hair and wearing a bright blue dress, but now her nose was missing, leaving a black hole on her features, as she bared her teeth and went to snap at Steven, who grabbed onto the sides of her head and pushed back, trying to give himself enough room to free himself, but she grabbed onto his wrists in response and held fast, trying to drag him back into range of her jaws.

Her rotten breath washed over his face and he gagged, his eyes watering, but he kept his firm hold onto the zombie woman, not wanting to give her any space to utilise. Knowing full well his axe was out of reach, he had to use his bare hands on the bitch. Gritting his teeth, he pushed her back, smacking her skull off of the floor. There was a muted _splat _sound as her blood was spilt, but she didn't relinquish her grip, so Steven slammed her head again, and again, and again-

_Crack! Crack! __Crack!_

-the final blow smashed the back of her skull like an eggshell and she finally let go, her arms releasing their hold and flopping out to the side, a pool of rancid blood gathering beneath her head. Steven stared down into her noseless visage for a while longer, and then finally pushed himself to his feet, sighing in exertion as he did so. He then carefully went for his fire axe, retrieving it as he looked down sadly at the woman's body.

She must've had her own life before all this, a family, a job- the same things he had. And now by some freak occurrence she was nothing more than an insane shell looking to feast upon any flesh she could find. And he had no choice but to kill her, but still…something inside of him made him pity what he had just done.

But also knowing that he still wasn't safe, he had no choice but to move on, and he made a dash towards the open double doors ahead of him.

* * *

BOOM!

The creature flopped to the ground, its skull totally obliterated by the shotgun blast which had been delivered at almost point-blank range. A young African-American man in the fatigues of the U.B.C.S stared in shock at the massive corpse before him, as green blood pumped from its destroyed head.

"You allright laddie?" asked a voice with a trace of a Scottish accent, as a stocky man of average height, with blue eyes and cropped red hair, stepped into view, extending his hand out to help the younger man to his feet. The front of his tactical vest was loaded with the gleaming red of shotgun shell casings, a smoking Benelli M3 shotgun in his right hand.

"I'm fine, t-thanks," the younger man replied finally, taking the strong hand and allowing himself to be dragged to his feet.

"No worries," replied the Scottish man with a crooked grin. "Comrades watch each other's arses, right?"

"Sure," laughed Gary Schaffer, private within the U.B.C.S Charlie Platoon. They were probably the last ones left.

When Sergeant Dietrich ordered his squad to abandon Captain Mercer and the others to their fate on the basketball court, these two had been with them, and it seemed as though they were safe, even if the sergeant had no idea where he was going. But then they were jumped by…something, one of which now lay dead at their feet. They seemed to resemble giant cockroaches, with segmented bodies, spindly legs with sickle-like blades on the end, and rotund eyes that resembled those of a common house fly.

The group had been split in two, with Schaffer and his companion had fled in a different direction from the rest of the team, chased by screaming monstrosities. After being attacked from two sides at once, they had fought back, managing to kill the monsters, but no without expending a fair amount of ammo doing so. Gary quickly crossed over to retrieve his M4A1, checking the magazine as he did so.

"And what the hell are you, my friend?" asked the red-haired man, crouching down over the body of their latest kill, prodding at it with his shotgun barrel.

James McCormack, or 'Mac' as he was better known, was something of a legend within Charlie Platoon, a former SAS soldier and the platoon's designated demolitions expert and armaments person, capable of mixing up fresh ammunition from raw gunpowder and other components. His speciality was combining the gunpowder with small amounts of residue from C4 and other explosive materials, creating ammunition with much greater stopping power than regular ammunition, and whenever he made a fresh batch everyone else wanted some.

Personality wise he was fairly talkative when he wanted to be, eager for a drink and a laugh like many Scotsman, but on a mission he could be incredibly short and blunt when he wanted to be, intensely focused on the mission before him. He had few solid friends within the regiment, one of which, Will Daniels who served as a medic in the Delta Platoon, apparently served in the same regiment as Mac.

The Scotsman stood, casually reloading his M3 with some fresh shells from the bandoliers crossing his torso. He always carried a shotgun, preferring to get up close and personal to his opponent, so he could make sure they were dead the first time he pulled that trigger.

"Looks like some sort of bug-based B.O.W," said Gary finally, breaking the long silence as Mac continued to examine the body. "Like the Chimeras?"

"This is different though," replied Mac, using his shotgun barrel to point out the monster's general features. "Got more flesh on him than a Chimera, for one thing. And these ones have no qualms about coming outside to attack either."

"An accidental B.O.W then?" asked Gary, looking over at another dead bug monster lying next to a half-full dumpster, its torso riddled with M4 bullet wounds.

"Of course," stated Mac, turning back to face Gary. "How you doing for ammo then laddie?" Gary seemed to be taken aback by the fact Mac was questioning him directly, before he turned his attention towards his gear pouches.

"Well…got three full mags left for the M4," he stated, holding up a few banana-shaped magazines. "Still got all my ammo for the sidearm, and then I still got two grenades left too…so I'm not entirely useless yet."

"Good to hear," drawled Mac, before turning away and looking around the small courtyard they were stood in, looking for a way to move forward. Of course, the rest of the regiment was most likely dead already, and it seemed pointless to continue on their mission of finding any human survivors, but Mac also knew standing around and moping wouldn't help them in the slightest. They had to keep moving, stay ahead of the zombie hordes.

Most of the doors that would lead into the back of apartment buildings or various stores were blocked off, either with wooden boards hammered across the frame or barricaded with heavy furniture, though he could see one chain-link gate about 20 yards away, which remained slightly open. "Come on, this way," said Mac suddenly, already walking towards the gate, as Gary hurried after him.

"Hey, wait up!"

Mac shook his head and sighed as he pushed through the gate, sweeping his shotgun back and forth as he entered a new stretch of alleyway. Far as he knew, this Schaffer was on his very first mission with the U.B.C.S, and the damned kid had spent half the time looking terrified as he fired wildly at the zombies, not even going for headshots. He didn't even seem to fit the appearance of hardened soldier, unlike the rest of the regiment, and part of the Scot wondered why exactly he had ended up with the U.B.C.S, alongside the hardened war criminals and disgraced soldiers.

_Crash!_

The sound of a trash can being knocked over almost made him jump in surprise, turning and aiming his shotgun back the way he had come, to see Schaffer standing next to a recently tipped trash can, looking somewhat sheepish.

"Sorry," he said quietly. Mac just rolled his eyes and turned away, making his way down the new alleyway.

This one was more cramped than the others, with only a few inches on either side of him, finding himself having to step over the odd cardboard box or trashcan as he went. Suffice to say, it would be very bad if they were ambushed by zombies or any other B.O.W's down here.

"Watch your step," warned Mac as Schaffer followed behind him, his assault rifle slung freely and his SIG Pro drawn instead, a weapon more suited to the cramped conditions. They rounded a corner into another stretch, which thankfully opened out into a small courtyard, some sort of open ground thankfully.

"Thank God," sighed Schaffer as Mac pressed onwards, stepping into the courtyard, and waiting around for his companion to catch up with him. As he did, he glanced up at the large steel gates before them, one of them left hanging open slightly. Beyond the gates he could spy a plain-looking brick building, a large sign posted above its front.

_Raccoon City Water and Electric_

"A utilities plant," whispered Mac, moving forward as Schaffer squeezed out into the open. "Come on," he then added, approaching the gates, "we should be able to take a break inside."

"Sure," sighed Schaffer as he followed after the Scot, who pushed the gate open fully and moved inside, sweeping his shotgun back and forth as he did. Schaffer followed after, assault rifle readied. The concrete-paved yard they found themselves in was fairly absent of any distinguishing features, save for some abandoned water drums and a parked up forklift truck.

Though a couple of bodies were still left over, chewed up so badly there was no chance of them coming back as zombies. Which was just as well, as ammo was becoming something of a premium in a situation like this. But that didn't mean there wouldn't be any zombies inside to deal with.

"Come on, let's keep going," stated Mac, but he was halted when Schaffer slapped a hand down on the Scot's shoulder to stop him in his tracks.

"Over there!" the young soldier hissed, and Mac's eyes followed his comrade's outstretched arm towards a closed manhole a short distance away. He stared intently, only then realising what Schaffer was referring to.

There was a small, ragged hole bored straight through the thick steel. What was more disturbing though was the small blood trail they could see, leading from the manhole towards the building itself, terminating where something small but strong had punched straight through a wire mesh vent covering just to the left of the entrance, a set of blue double doors.

"What the hell?" whispered Mac as he moved towards the bloody trail to take a closer look. He stooped down and examined it closely, before he smeared two of his fingers in it and rubbed it about, realising that the blood seemed to be mixed in with something else: something thick and slimy, almost like mucus. He looked back towards the manhole, and tried to think of something that could be strong enough to pierce thick steel. He could think of nothing.

"What do you think it's from?" asked Schaffer from behind the Scot.

"Don't know," replied Mac in a droll manner, before he rose to his feet and wiped his fingers on his pants leg. "But it's probably inside there," he then added, looking towards the building. "Don't let your guard down."

"Sure," nodded Schaffer weakly, even as his companion approached the double doors, fully intending to keep on going inside, whatever was lurking within. He knew then that he had to start pulling his weight, otherwise they both might be killed in a brutal fashion. He quickly approached the doors behind Mac, and each man took up position on either side of the doorway, preparing to breach and enter. Mac readied his shotgun and looked over at Schaffer.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Yeah," nodded Schaffer breathlessly, as Mac pushed the door open fully and stepped inside, Schaffer doing the same on his side, sweeping inside of the building reception.

"Damn, they got this place too," said Mac as he looked around a rather spacious reception area. Several corpses lay piled here and there, one of them propped up on the battered padded seats to their left. To the right, the reception desk was unmanned, as expected, though Schaffer spied the body of a young brunette girl lying awkwardly on her side, her light blue dress shirt stained with deep crimson from a bite wound on her jugular.

"This really was a full scale outbreak," mused Schaffer. "There's no-one left alive…"

"Aye, and they told us that only about half of the population had been exposed," growled Mac as he checked a nearby body in grey overalls for anything useful. "What a bloody mess, and all for what?" Schaffer didn't say anything as he started to move away from the open entrance doors, eager to move on. Since this was only his first mission with the U.B.C.S, he didn't know an awful lot about Umbrella's previous crimes, or any previous outbreaks the others had been through; just the basics. He decided now wasn't the time to pry though.

"We should keep moving," he suggested instead, something that Mac seemed to react to, and the Scotsman stood up and began to move after his companion.

"Uggghhhhhh…"

"Crap!" cursed Mac as he and Schaffer both turned back towards the doors to see four of the bodies rise sluggishly to their feet, turning their eyes in the direction of the fresh meat that had just walked in oblivious. Schaffer turned his eyes towards the female behind the reception, who just moaned slackly now as she began to reach towards Mac, who just turned his shotgun and pulled the trigger, blowing her apart like a rotten tomato.

Schaffer turned his aim towards the other zombies remaining in the lobby and opened up, making sure to just pull the trigger in short, sharp bursts, so he didn't waste a load of ammo. A few seconds later, they had fallen to the ground, killed with perfect headshots, and the two of them had only used a little ammo in clearing the room.

"Nice work," complimented Mac as he loaded a fresh shell into his weapon's tube magazine to make it fully loaded. "So what were you before you came here then? A stone cold killer or a military man?"

"That's not…something I want to talk about right now," said Schaffer slowly, as he checked his current magazine.

"Hey, I'm just curious, you know," said Mac, trying to ease over the uncomfortable feelings in the air, grinning slightly. "Everyone else in the regiment tells each other why we're here exactly-"

"-shouldn't we be getting out of here?" snapped Schaffer suddenly, his voice rising, his face contorting into an angry scowl. "Maybe when there isn't a danger of zombies eating us alive, I might tell you!" Mac just stared in silent surprise, before he lowered his head and regained his composure.

"Suit yourself then," he said flatly, pushing past Schaffer and leading the way down the lone passage towards the door at the far end, the only other path they could take in here. Schaffer just stood in place for a while longer, head tilted towards the ground, before he turned and followed after Mac quietly.

The next door creaked as it opened, revealing a massive generator room inside, the combined whirring sounds of the half dozen old fashioned generators in the room almost deafening to their ears. There was a rusty catwalk above their heads which circled the room, and numerous thick electrical cables criss-crossed the room as well, providing power to all homes and businesses within this area of the city, while four thick concrete support pillars held up the ceiling, one in each corner of the spacious room. The two mercs stood in silence for a few moments, waiting for any potential threats to show themselves, but nothing came, and they relaxed.

"Damned noisy, that's for sure," said Mac loudly, stating the obvious somewhat, before his eyes settled on a heavy-looking metallic shutter in the far corner of the generator room, with the words 'Exterior Access' painted across them. "Look, there's a way out over there," he then stated, pointing, already moving forwards.

"Wait!" hissed Schaffer, grabbing onto Mac's arm. "You hear that?" he then asked, holding one of his arms up. Mac looked at him as though he crazy, but then he sharpened his ears and he could hear something else, over the roars of the generators.

_Flip. Flap. Flip. Flap._

"What the?" asked Mac, moving around one of the generators to get a clear view of the central area of the room. That sound from just before had sounded almost like a wet fish slapping around helplessly on dry land, a sound he had become accustomed with during his childhood, going on fishing trips with his father and uncle back on the Lochs.

"Don't…know," replied Schaffer as he moved around the other way, intending to get the drop on whatever was making those strange noises. As they emerged out into the open area in between the generators, they both came to a halt, just staring at a spot next to a large overturned water barrel.

_Oh now what? _Thought Mac grimly.

There was…something, lying in the middle of the floor. It was only small, about a foot in length, and it was pink in colour, the hue of human flesh, but it was flat in appearance, almost reminding them of a tadpole, with a long tail that tapered away from its rear end, with a single stubby arm sticking out on the right side of its thorax. But most disturbingly, on the top side it had a huge eyeball, several inches in diameter, twitching constantly in its socket. The whole thing twitched itself in fact, flopping around uselessly.

"The fuck is that?" asked Schaffer in a disturbed tone, before he noticed the thin trail of blood leading away from the thing towards an opened vent at the base of the wall to their far left. No…the trail lead to the thing, showing it was the same thing that had busted out of the manhole cover outside the building. Though looking at it now, it hardly seemed a threat, flapping around uselessly.

"Don't know," replied Mac, keeping his M3 trained on the creature's head region. "But whatever it is, we should keep-"

He was cut off by a wet, fleshy sound, and it took a few moments for them to realise that the sound had emanated from the strange creature on the floor, its side having ripped apart suddenly, spraying green fluid onto the concrete. They both stared in shock, even as the flesh along its back then split apart, and it seemed to be growing.

"Oh man," whispered Schaffer.

The creature remained writhing in place as green fluid seeped out from several regions of its small body, new folds of flesh and muscle forming out of the wounds, almost like bread dough expanding in a hot oven. Its single stubby limb began to grow as well, increasing in length and taking on the features of a human arm, albeit one crawling with purple veins. Then there was more tearing of flesh from the spot behind body, and a pair of stubby legs sprouted out from beneath its skin, gradually lifting its bulky body off of the ground, while its initially whip-like tail increased in mass too, becoming more rigid like a tree trunk.

The two mercs continued to back away as another arm erupted out of the left side of its torso, this one half-formed, heavy with slabs of muscle and tipped with a series of sharp, dagger-like claws a few inches long. The limb pushed down onto the concrete and lifted the rest of the body off the ground, green fluid continuing to erupt from countless pores on its body. And to finish off the gruesome growth spurt, a long, prehensile object erupted from the spot which Mac assumed was its neck, extending out a few feet and developing into a flat, wide skull, complete with beady eyes and curved fangs jutting out from its lower jaw. The creature kept its head lowered as blood continued to drip from its neck, and then it raised itself up to look at them in the eye. Dark purple veins criss-crossed its entire body like a road map.

"Well, this is new on me," deadpanned Mac.

The monster threw its long neck back and let out a dull roar that reverberated through the generator room, drool trailing from the corners of its mouth. It continued to stare at them for a while, before it took a shaky step towards them, perched on its legs and its left arm, the other arm just hanging limply at its side. The giant eyeball on its side remained, though now it was nearly 6 feet across, twitching and blinking rapidly.

"Oh this is just perfect," seethed Schaffer as he backed away.

"Don't just stand there, killed the damned thing!" cried Mac, pulling the trigger.

BOOM!

The buckshot smacked into the spot just next to the monster's neck, and it grunted in pain as green blood sprayed from the crater-like wound. The Scotsman pumped his shotgun and fired twice more, each shot tearing a bloody wound into its flesh, but failing to slow it down, even as Schaffer joined in, riddling its left arm with rapid fire.

The creature reared back a little, so it now stood balanced on its legs and tail, and roared loudly in fury, before it swung its massive fist into the water barrel it had been lying next to previously, sending it flying towards the two humans with frightening force.

"Move!" yelled Mac as he shoved Schaffer to the side, and then rolled in the opposite direction as the massive blue barrel sailed by, crashing against the wall behind them and folding in two like a soda can. Schaffer gasped in shock as he pulled himself into an upright position, to see the creature lurching towards Mac, opening and closing its fist constantly. Whether it was through pain or through the need to kill these two puny humans, he couldn't tell.

Mac remained on one knee as he unloaded his shotgun into the advancing monstrosity, spilling plenty of blood, but not doing any visible damage. The wounds it had suffered previously remained, though it looked as though they had only succeeded in taking off the monster's top layers of skin and not damaging the vital insides.

When he clicked on empty and reached for the fresh shells stored on his vest, the monster suddenly picked up some speed and lurched after him, throwing its fist straight towards him. "Shit!" he cursed, before diving off to the side, barely avoiding a blow that would have killed him otherwise. The fist meanwhile, punched through the front of one of the generators like it was made from wet paper, and there was a burst of blue sparks as it ceased working immediately, the deafening drone choked out, even as the creature staggered backwards, blue electricity coursing through its huge body, groaning in agony.

Schaffer gagged as the smell of burnt flesh entered his nostrils and stung his throat, before looking over at the monster, dark burns forming along the side of its neck and arm where it had punched through the generator. The young merc was glad that the generator humming had faded away now, so he could at least hear himself think now.

Aiming down the sights of his M4A1, he opened fire again, pouring a sustained deluge of fire into the side of its neck, spilling more blood and causing the monster to switch its attention towards him. Its head turned to face him, its eyes burning with rage.

"Come on, you son of a bitch!" he yelled, firing off the last remnants of ammo in his clip before ripping the empty mag free and tossing it aside, slamming a fresh one home. The monster roared in response and began to lurch towards him, putting its left arm down every now and then to speed up its pace.

Schaffer glanced behind him as he made a move towards a nearby generator, making sure that the creature was following him fully, drool streaming from its jaw as it galloped along in almost comical fashion. He then made a move towards the generator, squeezing himself through the gap that would only accommodate his size, but not the huge monster.

From across the room, Mac reloaded his shotgun as he watched Schaffer lead the creature over towards the generator. "What the hell are you doing lad?" he asked himself quietly.

Schaffer was already halfway into the gap when the monster slammed its fist against the ground just behind him, knocking him off his feet, his assault rifle flying out of range, and nearly smashing his head against the cold floor. He gasped and rolled onto his back to see the monster's hideous face come into view, its eyes glowing in the limited light, and Schaffer had to pull his legs back as it then thrust its left arm inside, trying to grab at his legs.

With his main weapon out of reach, Schaffer drew his handgun and aimed it towards the monster's face. He couldn't really miss at this sheer close range really, and he put three rounds into its face, as it desperately tried to pry past the heavy generator to grab at its prey. Each bullet impact threw up a small puff of blood and forced the creature to lurch back slightly, giving Gary enough time to scuttle backwards, before the creature swung its massive fist around in an arc, smashing it into the rear of the generator, smashing a large crater and forcing it forward on its mounting a few inches, creating more space for it to get at Gary. The droning whine cut out a little more as the generator fizzled out.

"Give it up already!" yelled Gary as he fired a few more shots, sinking the bullets into a swollen spot where the creature's elbow joint was. There was a burst of green blood and the monster retracted its arm, groaning in a hollow manner, giving him a bit more time to pull himself backwards, but his foot caught on the loop of a thick power cable, and he was stopped in his tracks.

"Oh shit, come on!" he cried as he tried to pull himself free, knowing he couldn't exactly take his knife to an electrical cable, just in case he went up in smoke. But he soon found he wouldn't need to worry about being tangled up in cables.

With a dull roar, the monster reappeared again, its arm shooting in like a whip and grabbing onto Gary's ankles with massive force, dragging him out of his hiding spot as though he were just a puny mouse. He cried out as his head smacked against the hard floor, and bright stars flashed in his vision momentarily, and then he was pulled out into the open, dangling upside down like a human piñata. He found himself staring up at the monster's ugly face, drool trailing from its broken teeth as it considered its next meal.

"Fuck you!" he yelled, more in frustration than anything else as the monster whipped him around savagely, his handgun flying out of his hand and landing well out of range. He looked up at the creature's glowing eyes as it moved in closer, for the finishing blow.

BOOM!

A shotgun blast rang out and blood exploded from the side of its neck, and Gary felt his legs released, and he hit the floor, barking out a cough as he landed roughly, before he began to drag himself backwards, the creature's neck lolling around on the ground as its most recent wound bled out.

"You allright laddie?" cried Mac as he stood nearby, unloading another round of buckshot into their mutant opponent.

"I will be!" cried Schaffer back as he dashed to retrieve his assault rifle, the mutant continuing to bleed as he pulled the bolt back, ready to fire. He shook his head again to clear away the stars.

With another roar the creature spun around towards Mac suddenly, lashing out with its clawed arm, but the mercenary rolled out of range, the claws punching through a stack of oil drums instead and scattering them like bowling pins. The Scots man moved around to its side and fired off a few more shells, one of tearing through its right kneecap and nearly causing it to flop to the ground, but the mutant remained on all three limbs, the flesh on its ruined kneecap quickly stitching itself back together.

"Oh now what?" called out Schaffer as the mutant leaned forward and opened its mouth wide, making what sounded like a load of hacking coughs. Then there was a deluge of green fluid erupting from its mouth, and something indistinct tumbled out among the globs of vomit.

"What the hell?" asked Mac as he loaded his shotgun up, just as he saw something moving within the huge puddle of vomit underneath the monster's long neck. A few seconds later, it suddenly darted towards Mac, and he saw it was a small tadpole-like creature, almost exactly the same as the creature had looked before growing into the monstrosity it resembled now.

"Schaffer, watch out!" he yelled, aiming his shotgun just as two more similar creatures dropped from the larger mutant's mouth. "It's creating offspring!"

"Aw shit!" cried the younger mercenary as soon as he saw the two offspring come scuttling towards him, seeming to glide across the ground, leaving a thin trail of green slime behind them, their tails waggling to push them along. He even saw they had small eyeballs somewhere on the surface of their skin, like the big one did.

He aimed his assault rifle down and opened fire, draining the weapon magazine as he frantically tried to take them out before they got into range to do…whatever it was these things did to their prey. His salvo got one of them, cutting it in half savagely and causing it to bubble away into a puddle of green slime, but the second one suddenly put on a burst of speed and darted past the last few rounds in his magazine and jumped, clearing nearly 6 feet and landing on his left pants leg, wrapping its whip-like tendrils around his knee and sinking its teeth into his leg.

"Ah!" he screamed, dropping his M4 as blood sprayed from the tiny wound, before he grabbed for his combat knife. "Get off!" he then yelled as he grabbed onto what he assumed was its head, before jamming the point of his knife into its pink underside. It squealed in pain as he then ripped it off and tossed it aside, where it curled itself into a ball and melted away, exactly like the first one had. He then glanced down at the ripped fabric, and the angry beads of crimson which began to bubble out from underneath his skin.

"Shit…" he gasped, checking the broken skin, even as he heard Mac from across the way.

"Schaffer!" he screamed, as the monster came loping after him, green slime trailing from its mouth. Noting his companion was in danger, Schaffer quickly grabbed for his M4, ignoring the pain in his leg, slamming a fresh clip home as he saw Mac dodge another blow from the monster, only to be caught by a sudden backhanded swipe from its left arm, throwing the Scotsman against one of the generators.

"Hey, over here ugly!" yelled the young man as he fired another burst from his M4, some of the rounds sinking into its thick hide, but the rest actually struck the massive eyeball on its side.

The huge organ blinked rapidly as the rounds made contact, bright pink fluid spurting into the air with each impact, and the monster immediately staggered, roaring in a more high-pitched tone this time, sounding as though it were screaming in pain almost. It slouched heavily on its right side, its third eye blinking furiously as it tried to recover its strength.

"Mac! Aim for its eye! Its eye!" yelled Schaffer as he opened fire again, stitching a line across the side of its body, spilling more pink fluid and causing the creature to flinch heavily again, screaming as it did, giving Mac enough time to recover and get to his feet, circling around to the creature's side and aiming his shotgun into the creature's third eye. There was quick discharge of the weapon, and a thick jet of pink fluid sprayed into the air, the monster screaming in an even more pained tone than before, almost collapsing onto its side.

"Nice one lad," smiled Mac as he carefully crossed the floor to stand beside Gary, being careful not to slip on the copious amounts of pink and green fluid that littered the ground. They both watched cautiously as the monster slouched around to face them, making sure to keep its third eye pointed away from them, out of their direct line of sight. It was slowing down visibly now, moving with a slight limp as its white eyes stared straight through them.

"Got it on the ropes," smiled Mac as he slotted some fresh shells home and racked the shotgun up. "If we can just get it to expose its eye again-"

"Pincer attack?" suggested Schaffer, as he reloaded his side arm, his M4 almost drained entirely. Mac just looked over at the younger merc and shared a quick nod, just as a retching sound was heard in their ears.

"Heads up!" cried the Scotsman, just as the monster vomited once again, spewing out even more of its smaller offspring. "He's creating more babies again!"

"Great, more ankle biters," muttered Gary darkly as he bought his M4A1 to bear once again as the smaller creatures shuffled over the concrete towards the two mercenaries. He lowered his aim and fired off a long burst of gunfire, slicing a couple of the things in half and leaving them dissolving away in a pool of green fluid, while the last one made a beeline towards Mac.

The Scotsman threw himself sideways as the creature leaped up at him, and he fired off a shot with his weapon, the buckshot literally causing it to explode into a cloud of green mist, most of which showered his torso as he hit the ground. But that was the last of his worries as he saw the main creature lumbering towards him, its right arm still held to its side, covering its major weak spot.

"Come and get it, you ugly git!" he yelled as he continued to lie on his side, sinking a couple rounds of buckshot into the front of the creature's huge body, shedding even more green blood and slowing it down somewhat. He then pushed up to his feet and fired another round into the side of its long neck.

He seemed to have caused some amount of pain to it as it roared in a guttural manner and suddenly whipped its massive right hand out, clamping around his ankles and yanking him from his feet with ease. He felt the force of the concrete floor shoot across his back and down his pine, before he felt the creature drag him forwards a few feet, until he was almost underneath its head, sticky drool trailing from its wide mouth.

He heard the chatter of an assault rifle firing, and pink fluid streamed from the monster's third eye, and it grunted in pain, releasing its grip on Mac's legs, allowing the Umbrella mercenary to drag himself backwards, but not before unloading another round of buckshot into the creature's face at point-blank range.

The shot ripped through the top left section of the creature's skull, tearing off most of its skin and sending up yet another jet of green fluid. The creature roared in agony as it stumbled backwards, leaving its vulnerable third eye wide open once again, and Schaffer wasted no time in unloading the remainder of his final M4 magazine into it.

The monster roared once again as it reared back onto its hind legs, pink fluid streaming from the blinking and twitching organ mounted in its flank, and Mac took the opportunity to move around to the creature's side, giving him a clear shot at its exposed third eye, poised to deal the final blow to the creature. Once he was within a few feet, he aimed his shotgun into the very centre of the eyeball.

"Say goodnight," he growled, before pulling the trigger. There was no chance of him missing at that range.

BOOM!

The centre of the eyeball popped loudly, almost like a zit, showering him in pink fluid, before the creature swung around, smacking him in the middle of the chest and throwing him backwards a fair distance, crashing into Schaffer and knocking both of them to the ground in a heap.

The monster reared up high on its rear legs, roaring in a much louder tone than it had done previously, before it crashed belly-first to the ground, and finally became still, its mouth issuing a dying groan for several seconds afterwards, a wide pool of pink and green fluid spreading out beneath its heavy corpse.

Schaffer groaned as he sat up, in time to see the creature's writhing body seeming to break down, its skin starting to bubble and boil like water in a kettle, its arms and legs seeming to retract inside of its body, the stench of some unknown chemical wafting into the air.

"Ugh," said Schaffer as he sat up, watching as the entire monster seemed to be breaking down in a similar manner to the smaller monsters, a large puddle of green slime starting to steadily grow beneath its slain form. After a few more moments, its legs had totally been enveloped within the frothing green solution, its arms starting to follow a similar fate, along with its long neck.

"Damn," groaned Mac as he forced himself to stand, observing the massive puddle carefully just in case anything else were to happen suddenly, and he kept his trigger finger poised around the shotgun's trigger guard. After a couple more minutes though, it looked as though they were in the safe once again, as the monster had been reduced to a mass of slime and bubbling fluid, its original features practically indistinguishable now.

"What the hell was that?" asked Schaffer finally, as he let his M4 hang around his back while he pulled out his handgun. Hopefully he would be able to find some more ammo for his rifle in the near future.

"I don't know," remarked Mac as he stooped down to examine the bubbling mass. "Some new kind of B.O.W, that's for sure. Don't know where the hell it came from originally though. But its chemical structure seems to be pretty unstable, like the Chimeras…its whole body breaking down on death."

"Well…that's fascinating and all, but can we get out of here now?" suggested Schaffer, sounding a little flaky, especially with Mac sitting with his face barely 2 feet away from the festering pile that used to be a huge monster, that could come back in a second form.

"Yeah, sure," sighed Mac as he rose to his feet and indicated towards the steel shutter they had spied earlier. "We need to get your leg checked out as well," he then added, indicating Schaffer's torn pant leg where one of the smaller creatures had latched onto him and drawn blood.

"Oh, of course," replied Gary as he realised that he was still bleeding somewhat, and then quickly turned after Mac as the Scotsman approached the shutter briskly, eager to move on. Behind them, the dead monster continued to fester away, until there was literally nothing left of it.

* * *

Lenny approached the store front carefully, his Beretta raised in one hand. Though the zombies had already moved on from this street, he still couldn't be too careful, in case one lone zombie took him by surprise and bit him, and then everything else would be a lost cause. The last few hours had taught him to remain permanently on edge.

Or if another insane human like Father Michael appeared suddenly and tired to blow his head off with a shotgun. He shook that thought off quickly, trying to deny it.

The sign over the front door read 'Samson's Shooters', the local gun store for this part of town. Samson was good enough when it came to ordering custom weapons for his numerous customers, but his people skills left a lot to be desired. He wouldn't even make eye contact with a person unless they had a weapon which needed repairing, and even then he was somewhat difficult, even downright hostile if pushed.

But at the moment Lenny didn't care about that. He needed to restock on ammo, and this was the best place to find some, though it wasn't looking so good from where he was stood right now. The glass cases in the middle of the store were smashed and entirely empty, the only sign of the store's original stock being several empty cardboard boxes, intended for 9mm rounds and 12 gauge shells. The cabinets along the side walls were bare as well, most of the doors simply smashed open, the hooks that once held a variety of rifles and shotguns now totally bare. The only remaining firearms were antiques that looked as though they belonged in the Wild West, completely useless in this situation.

At the far side of the store, he could see the cash register was still intact, though he could see several more empty boxes of ammunition and shell casings lying about, along with a couple of stray slashes of blood sprayed across the far wall, along with a couple of bullet holes. Fearing the worst, Lenny carefully peered over the counter top, and saw Samson's dead body lying on the other side.

The middle-aged man was slumped against the wall, his white and red plaid shirt stained with deep crimson from two small-calibre gunshot wounds. His face was set in a blank expression, and his skin was starting to turn pale, indicating that he'd been dead for a while at least. But it showed that poor Samson had been killed trying to protect his store from opportunist looters. Stubborn to the end.

Lenny turned his gaze to see that Samson had been reaching for something underneath the counter, and he curiously peered over the countertop to see an opened wooden box on the lowest shelf, the handle of a sawn-off double barrelled shotgun peeking out in plain view.

"Better than nothing I guess," muttered Lenny, moving around and stooping down, drawing the shotgun out from its box, noting that the side of its hinge mechanism between the barrels and the breeches were decorated with swirling patterns, probably a collector's piece. He also fished out a black leather ammo belt, loaded with a total of 20 fresh 12 gauge shells, the bright red casings providing a sharp contrast against the black belt.

Lenny slung the belt over his shoulder and positioned it across his chest, before he then lifted the shotgun up and snapped the barrels open, checking that the breeches were already loaded. Satisfied that they were, he snapped the weapon shut and began to rise up to leave-

-he saw an abrupt shadow pass just in front of the store window and he ducked down immediately, cursing silently to himself. A couple of seconds later, a pair of footsteps entered the store, crunching shards of glass beneath their shoes as they approached Lenny's position. The footsteps slowed down, before circling the store slowly. They sounded too regular to belong to zombies, but after his recent experience with Father Michael, he wasn't taking any chances with still-human survivors.

"Man, what a dump!" snapped a high-pitched male voice finally.

"Hey!" retorted a deeper voice with disdain. "Never judge a book by its cover dude, there might still be something here we can use against those freaks!" The footsteps circled a little more, neither of them commenting on the dead body just to Lenny's right.

"Its hopeless man!" wailed high-pitched voice guy. "It's been looted from top to bottom. The only things left here are these useless antiques!"

"They'd probably be worth a pretty penny, you know?" suggested the other one, from the left side of the store. "But money's worth nothing in this tip. That's why Barrows and the others got themselves killed trying to break open the safe back in that other store!" Lenny blinked in surprise. "Those damned freaks just poured in and cut them off…"

A gang of looters, just roaming about and taking advantage of anything they could find in the ruined store: they were just asking for trouble. And if this man was to be believed, then some of their friends had been killed when their greed got the better of them.

"Hey! My brother was in there, you heartless-"

"Well maybe your brother should have used his head a little more!" came the savage reply, more glass crunching as it sounded as though a confrontation between the two remaining looters was imminent. Lenny tightened his grip around his shotgun handle.

"Shut the hell up!" shrieked the high-pitched guy. "You don't know a damned thing-"

More breaking of glass, quickly followed by a scuffle and the 'whoosh' of a solid object being swung into thin air, missing its intended target. "Back the fuck off, now!" stormed the other looter, his patience rapidly evaporating. "I've killed a few of those zombies and I'll do the same to you, you pinhead!"

"Dude, settle down man!" wailed the other voice. "This won't help anything!"

Lenny sighed as he listened to the argument continue, any chance of a peaceful resolution rapidly disintegrating as the seconds passed by. Clearly, both men were wound up fully, just waiting for any excuse to take it out on anyone else within range. It was a sad state of affairs, but he didn't blame anyone for going insane in this mess. Knowing that he would need to get involved sooner or later, Lenny rose to his feet fully, his shotgun aimed towards the two figures he now saw, who spun to face him.

"What the fuck?" snapped the one on the left, brandishing an aluminium baseball bat. Both men were dressed identically, in denim jeans, blue vests underneath tatty jackets, sneakers, and ski masks pulled over their heads. He couldn't see their faces as a result, but the one on the right, holding a blackjack, looked half-petrified.

"Look, just walk away now, and no-one has to get hurt," said Lenny, trying his best to ease the situation.

"You're a fucking cop man!" snarled the man on the left, eyes wide with a barely-concealed insanity. "The only way this is ending is with one of us in a body bag!"

"Enough people have died today!" retorted Lenny, feeling the tension building in his gut. "Don't make me do this!"

"Go ahead you fucking pig!" retorted the man on the left, his left hand reaching around to pull something out the back of his jeans. "I need to spill some more blood before this night is out!" Lenny saw a small calibre revolver being pulled out to aim at his head, but Lenny pulled the trigger on his recently acquired shotgun faster.

BOOM!

The retort of the weapon was much more ferocious than the Remington he had been using just previously, as was the massive burst of light that erupted from the sawn-off barrel. The crazed looter barked out a cough as he went flying backwards, the centre of his torso ripped open, blood spraying onto everything else in range, even across the startled face of the other looter. He hit the ground hard, the revolver flying out of his hand.

"William! Oh God, William!" cried the second looter, running forward a short distance, eyes impossibly wide, before looking over at Lenny, who continued to stand there, shocked at what had just transpired. "You killed him…you killed him!"

"I had no choice!" shot back Lenny. "You know fine well he was going to kill you too!"

"But you didn't have to kill him!" wailed the looter, his voice becoming hysterical. "You're all the same, killing each other just to-"

"Look out!" yelled Lenny as loud as he could manage, noticing the figure standing behind the looter, who reacted way too late to save himself.

A dark-haired man wearing jeans and a green long-sleeved shirt over a white vest suddenly lunged forward, sinking his teeth into the human's neck and ripping out a massive chunk of flesh, causing blood to erupt into the air and splatter across the ceiling. The looter screamed in a high-pitched manner which descended into a bloody gurgling sound as he sank to the ground, grabbing at his wound. The zombie responsible tried to lean down to help himself to the fresh meat, but Lenny fired off the second barrel of his sawn-off, taking off the man's head and some of his upper torso in a single shot.

As the second body thumped to the ground, Lenny snapped open the shotgun and discarded the spent casings, inserting two fresh shells and snapping it shut again. He moved around the counter, looking down at the body of the second looter, a massive lake of blood already pooled beneath his form. It was pointless, he had decided.

When he had pulled the trigger on the first looter, he hadn't hesitated, unlike the situation with Father Michael. It was a lot more comfortable for him to pull the trigger, and he unclenched his left hand a few times, trying to disperse the shakes he was beginning to develop. But this stand off and the incident with Father Michael had proved that it was pointless trying to reason with any other human survivors left in this city ravaged by the undead.

All he could do now was to try and save himself, save his family if possible. But he had no idea where they were, making his job about 10 times harder in that respect.

He heard the moans once more, and looked up towards the entrance, before making a quick dash outside and looking to his left down the street, to see what seemed like an entire army of zombies stretching across the full length of the road, blocking his advance.

"Where the hell did they come from?" he whispered to himself, looking around to try and find another route to take, but it didn't look like it. He didn't fancy going the opposite direction either, so he'd have to go through them, so it was a good thing that he had picked up that sawn-off just now. He looked around again, and his gaze settled on a red SUV parked on the far left side of the street, its rear door opened, revealing a bright orange propane tank to plain view. Smiling to himself, Lenny lowered his sawn off and aimed his handgun instead, squinting down the sights towards the tank before pulling the trigger.

There was a thunderous eruption of flame that swallowed up the SUV and nearly half of the crowd with it.

* * *

Corporal Adam Davis swallowed again, removing the sickly tinge of bile from his mouth once more. Since that debacle at the barricade, he had been struggling to keep his breakfast down, and he was winning, just barely. Besides, he was wearing a somewhat constricting gas mask at the moment, so he couldn't exactly throw up, even if he wanted to. And it wasn't just the masks either: their gloves and boots had been taped off as well, as command still weren't sure whether this was a toxic waste leak or something different. Better safe than sorry, after all…

"All clear," barked a voice to his right, and Davis nodded in confirmation, twisting away and aiming his M4 down the street they were currently on, looking for any threats. But there were none, and he and the other members of his four man fire team were by themselves. Sergeant Leland was leading another fire team a few hundred yards to their immediate east, but the tall buildings surrounding them made communications somewhat hit and miss.

Captain Petrucci had authorised the two teams to make a recon mission into the city limits, to gain a better understanding of what exactly was going on exactly, especially since after their unit had just cut down nearly a dozen innocent civilians in order to take out the sick-looking people who attacked all within reach, like rabid beasts. With the Captain being hounded by news crews and desperate to show that they all weren't cold-blooded killers, he had rounded up the remaining survivors and got them back to the checkpoint and to safety, despite the fact a few of the hysterical ones had to be sedated. Petrruci had then ordered his troops into numerous other operations to aid with the relief effort…hence their reason for being there right now.

Right now Davis was currently stood on one of the main avenues into the city, surrounded by dozens of abandoned cars and trucks, doors left wide open, from where their previous owners had just made a run for it, leaving the vehicles behind. Some of even had their lights left on or the engine running, and Davis made sure his men reached in and removed the keys from those that were still live, so the sound of any approaching threats wouldn't be masked by the drone of the vehicles. It was bad enough that their masks restricted their sight, they didn't need their hearing affected too.

Personally, Davis was more freaked out standing on this street than by the events at the checkpoint. It was eerily devoid of any sign of human life. Trash and other light debris were stirred up by the light autumn breeze, and the windows of nearby apartment buildings were shattered in their frames, very few lights on. Davis had actually been into Raccoon City a few times in the past, and each time it had been a classic example of a bustling Midwestern developing city, but now it was totally dead of any form of life. He felt the shivers run up his spine as he just stood there, his three companions moving to and fro, searching the sheltered doorways and alleyways for any sign of human life.

"This is getting ridiculous," stated Davis finally, a remark intended to dispel his uncomfortable feelings, but it didn't really do much in that regard as the three privates with him looked between one another, unsure on what to say. He settled on shaking his head instead, crossing over towards the others at the far side of the street. They were near to a plain-looking office building, its front windows cracked and spider webbed from where some unknown being had tried to gain entry.

Davis heard the crackling of his radio and reached for it, as Leland's voice was heard, through a thin veil of static. "Davis, do you read me, over?"

"Reading you loud and clear Sergeant, go ahead," replied Davis, sounding bored.

"Davis, we're finding no sign of human life here," explained Leland, static distorting his voice for that last part. "But we're finding splashes of blood here and there…looks like what happened at the checkpoint may have happened here in the city too. Watch your backs."

"Roger that Sergeant, see you soon," replied Davis as the line was cut off. Davis had barely took hold of his rifle again when he heard the sound of a door being thrown open to his right, and he immediately swung towards it, the rail-mounted flashlights of the entire fire team illuminating the darkened alleyway they were stood just outside of.

"Who's there?" demanded Private Williamson through his gas mask. They could just make out the outline of an open door, hanging open off its hinges, among a load of trash bags and other rubbish. A second later, a thin figure stumbled into view, out of the door.

"Help me!" shrieked a desperate female voice as the figure approached the soldiers, moving too fast to be one of those 'sick' people from before, but still they couldn't take any chances, even as she appeared in clear view and they saw the splotches of blood on her white shirt.

"Don't move!" ordered Davis, holding one hand with an open palm towards the figure, who only offered another desperate plea for help before she stumbled forwards into Davis, nearly knocking him from his feet. Davis quickly turned as he held onto the woman with one arm, setting her down on the ground as carefully as he could manage, urging the team's medic to tend to her, even though she looked in one piece.

"Ooooggghhhhh…."

A drawn-out moan from the same direction the female had approached from caused Davis to immediately snap back in that direction, his assault rifle readied. Just within the dark shadows, they could discern another figure just standing there, swaying slightly on the spot. Part of Davis begged for him to be seeing things, that it couldn't possibly happen again.

Davis' light illuminated a tall bald man with painfully pale skin and smeared in blood from the neck down, his white dress shirt and black pants ruined beyond repute. The man suddenly turned towards them, and let off another weak moan, dragging a leg that had nearly been twisted off at the knee behind him. Davis saw the blank look on his face and knew then and there that he was the same as those people back at the checkpoint.

A second later, he became aware of more forms massing behind the man, and they all discerned shambling shapes emerging from the shadows, heading straight towards them. Within several seconds, what was once only a dozen shapes had swelled to nearly thirty in all, their combined moans rising up into a disturbing chorus. And then his mind couldn't deny it anymore.

_Shit…it__'s happened here too! Maybe across the whole city?_

Davis swallowed once again, before he straightened up and aimed his rifle right down the alleyway towards the sick people, his companions doing the same. He only hesitated for a few seconds more, knowing that it was useless to try and reason with these 'people' after what he'd seen so far.

"Hostiles! Open fire!" he barked, thrusting his left hand forward with two fingers stretched out, indicating for his team to fire at will.

The combined discharges of their assault rifles was almost deafening, the orange and yellow flashes of their muzzle illuminating the grisly one-sided affair. The figures shuddered as the 5.56 mm rounds ripped clean through their soft bodies, literally turning them into Swiss cheese, ripping off limbs and even exploding heads into the bargain. But the figures still kept coming, desperate to get at the armed soldiers tearing through them like wet paper. It was almost as though they were lemmings, rushing off the cliffs to their watery graves.

After 10 seconds, the guns fell silent finally as the fire team hurriedly reloaded their weapons, Davis holding his breath, thankful that the gas mask filtered out the stench of gun smoke. They once-abandoned alleyway was now choked with a high pile of bloody corpses, some of them shredded beyond recognition, missing more than one limb. Then there was a sudden rustling of bodies, and they parted, allowing a young woman, a number of ragged holes ripped through the centre of her chest, to force herself to her feet. She offered a weak moan that seemed insignificant compared to the storm of gunfire just before, and then tried to take another step towards them. Davis quickly raised his rifle and snapped off a single shot.

BANG!

The woman was knocked off her feet, the top half of her skull vaporized.

"All clear," sighed Davis finally, lowering his rifle and turning slowly back towards the woman they had come across. He couldn't see the faces of the others, but through their masks he guessed they looked pretty freaked out by what had just gone down. He stooped down and took the woman's arms gently, checking her over for any injuries.

"You OK?" he asked softly, and she looked up to regard him with teary grey eyes. Frankly, she looked pretty wary, and for good reason, after what she had probably just been through. And they were wearing bulky gas masks that made them look like invaders from outer space too, so not the best look to make her feel safer.

"Look, we'll get you out of here and to safety, allright?" he continued, just as he heard the whine of static from his radio. He turned away from the woman and reached around for the radio.

"Davis! We heard gunfire! What's your situation, over?" asked Leland's frantic voice.

"Leland, we encountered some hostiles and had to use force," answered Davis, breathlessly. "Just like those people at the checkpoint…you'd better-"

"Hold that thought Davis," said the sergeant suddenly, his voice dropping out. Davis held his breath as he listened intently to the little background noise he could make out, the sound of hushed voices and and rustling being heard. Several seconds later, the voices dropped out, and there was a loud _crash! _Which nearly made Davis jump out of his skin.

"Shit!" cursed Leland, before a burst of gunfire was heard.

Leland's team was clearly still close enough for Davis to hear the weapon fire clearly, probably only a couple of streets over. The Corporal listened as the fire continued for a few seconds, the barks of M4 rifles undercut with the buzzsaw drone of an M249 S.A.W opening up. Davis grabbed for the radio again, his pulse rising.

"Leland! Respond! Respond, dammit!"

"Davis!" yelled Leland's voice, barely audible over the background noise of gunfire. "We have encountered massive resistance! Fall back, I repeat, fall back!" And with that, the sergeant's voice dropped out with a static click of his line being closed off.

Frankly, Davis didn't need to be told twice. He holstered his radio and looked back at his companions. "We're moving out. Now."

Another weak moan was heard not too far from their current position. Davis immediately rose to his feet and turned to look down the road, in time to see a swaying form appear in an open doorway about 30 yards away. A short while later, a man stumbled into view, his guts dangling freely from the rent on his stomach. Then there were more figures milling behind the man, and Davis aimed down the sights towards them.

"More contacts! Dead ahead!" barked the man to Davis' right, and the corporal was barely able to make out a line of figures staggering towards them, coming from the direction of the city centre, some of them tripping over themselves in their eagerness to reach fresh meat. The haunting chorus of moans, even from here, gave them all the creeps. Davis could even feel his gut churning once more.

"Come on, let's move!" he ordered instead, backing away slowly as he allowed his men to help the female survivor to her feet, before making their gradual way back up the street, towards where their transport was waiting. Davis squinted down his sights and opened fire, decapitating a few of the hostiles and staggering a couple more, who still advanced, despite their wounds. As he continued to back away, even more were massing, the crowd in the streets threatening to become an ocean that would flood over anyone unlucky or slow enough to be left behind.

Davis was starting to dread exactly what these people were. The pale skin, the glossed over eyes, the coagulated blood that split from their veins- he had seen it a few times before in the past, most significantly when his unit were called to a terrorist attack the year previously. Just as they were due to go into the office building held by the terrorists, the building was detonated in a massive bomb blast, leaving dozens dead, including the hostages and the terrorists themselves. Surveying the rows of dead afterwards, Davis never forgot the looks on those dead faces as he looked over them to try and identify each individual.

It was the same look he saw now, staring back at them in deadly mass. It was crazy to admit, but it looked as tough the dead were walking in Raccoon City.

* * *

"How much further?"

"For the last time, I don't know."

Ryan was really starting to feel Mile's questions grate at his patience in the last half hour or so, but part of him knew it was his own fault when he announced some random location and began to lead the others in said direction. Frankly, he didn't know if there were any safe places left in Raccoon City anymore.

After leaving Arklay Heights they had cut through numerous side streets and back alleys, purposely avoiding the larger crowds of undead, since their only weapons amounted to a baseball bat and a frying pan, both of which were starting to show the strain of being slammed into undead skulls. They had recently passed through the small back lot of a local butcher shop, the stench of a different kind of rotten meat entering their nostrils. They had encountered a single zombie, feasting on a large rack of beef left festering in one of the open dumpsters. Ryan had put him down with a solid blow to the back of his skull before it had even noticed them being there.

"Ryan, we should rest up for a while," sighed Amy eventually, and though Ryan turned to debate that suggestion, when he looked into her tired blue eyes, he immediately discarded that thought.

"OK, fine," he said instead, looking back and forth before his eyes settled on a pair of wooden slatted benches to his left, at the side of the road they were on. He then led the way over wordlessly, sitting down and stretching his legs out, while Amy sat down next to him, Miles guiding Michelle onto the bench next to them.

"Oh man," whispered Miles to himself as he dropped his improvised weapon to the ground. "This is complete bullshit…why didn't people see this coming?"

"I don't think any of us saw this every coming," muttered Ryan, stretching his legs out.

"Come on Ryan, those cannibal murders were clearly done by zombies," retorted Miles, indicating the general area around them. "Some kind of virus…that's how it works in the Biohazard movies, doesn't it? Spread its way into the city until this happened? Just like how Biohazard 2 started out-"

"Yeah, just a shame that Frank Greene isn't here to save us all," quipped Ryan, referencing the movie series' main hero, who always seemed to carry at least 3 types of weapon with him at once, along with infinite ammo, literally carving through. Ryan sure would have liked to have infinite ammo for some kind of gun right now, then they could just tear through those zombies with ease.

"I wonder if we're the only ones left?" asked Amy suddenly, looking back and forth between Ryan and Miles. They were both silent for a long time, as they could very well be the only humans left in this damned place after all the death and destruction they had witnessed so far. The only human they had seen recently was Alex Gould, the piano prodigy, who had lost all hope and promptly thrown himself to his death out of his apartment window as they watched.

"Who knows," sighed Miles finally. "And even if there is anyone, then who can tell if they haven't lost it?" Ryan didn't say anything, as his eyes were locked onto the pet store across from them, its front windows smashed in, and the animal cages empty. Were the animals affected by this shit too?

"How's Michelle doing?" asked Amy suddenly, and Miles just avoided direct eye contact, instead glancing over at the blonde female, just staring at the ground now, completely shut off ever since Harold's unfortunate fate. Soon enough Miles was convinced that she would barely be able to walk anymore.

"Just look," he said sadly. "She's barely said anything. Don't know if she can keep going after we've rested up."

"We're not leaving her," said Ryan firmly, immediately cutting off any of those dark thoughts about just leaving her for the zombies. "Enough people have already died today, we're not adding to that."

"Sure," replied Miles, even though he was already having doubts. Then he noticed a small convenience store on the corner across from them, and he spoke up again. "Hey, maybe we could grab a snack over there?" Ryan looked over to where Miles was indicating, just as his stomach grumbled loudly.

"Sure," he said finally, already rising to his feet and reaching for his bat. "Amy?" he then asked, turning to the redhead.

"Yes?"

"Me and Miles are going to run over to that corner store and get some food for us all," he explained, seeing her tighten up at the mention they would be going in alone. "We'll go in, get the stuff, and be right back in a couple of minutes, OK? If you see _any _zombies or otherwise, then scream your head off and we'll come running."

"S-sure," she stammered, offering a weak smile.

"All set," announced Miles, seemingly eager to get this over with, voicing no opposition to the plan. He picked up his frying pan and took a couple of practice swings.

"OK, we'll be right back," said Ryan, before both he and Miles turned and jogged towards the corner store, not looking back as Amy moved around to sit next to Michelle, moving an arm around her friend's shoulder.

"It'll be OK," she whispered. "We'll be out of here soon…" she added, as she glanced up and saw the two boys entering the store.

The place was as empty as the rest of the city, the cash register and the shelves practically untouched, and the two young men walked up and down the narrow aisles, looking for some easy snacks such as a bag of chips or candy bars, but all they could find were tins of perishable food and other useless household items.

"Any luck?" called out Ryan as he edged around another aisle corner, Miles calling out from the opposite side of the store.

"Got some bags of chips here," he replied. "Which would you prefer? Tangy cheese or regular old plain?"

Ryan didn't reply, as his eyes were locked on another sight he had seen just then. Just beside the front counter there was a plain grey door, bearing a sign that read 'staff only' on the front. Not so out of place, one might think, but Ryan was taking more notice of the fact the door was slightly open, its edge marred by a few tinges of something red. And Ryan had a bad feeling that he knew what it was.

"Ryan?"

Ryan ignored his friend's question as he moved closer towards the door, set on taking a closer look. Though the bloody handprint didn't give him good images in the head, he had to have least take a quick look. It could be a civilian who needed help, after all, and that overrode what Ryan's instincts were screaming at him to do. He reached out towards the door handle, stopping dead when he heard what sounded like a low growling coming from just behind the door.

_What the hell is that-?_

_BAM!_

The door slammed out on its hinges suddenly, nearly smacking Ryan in the face and causing him to tumble backwards in surprise onto the store floor, as some new threat stumbled into view.

It looked like a zombie, albeit a zombie with fiery red skin and blazing white eyes set into its sockets like comets, glaring down at Ryan and issuing another sinister growl from the back of its throat. It wore a plain blue shirt, a few of the buttons ripped off to expose its chest and dark pants, one of its shoes curiously missing. But Ryan took far more interest in the razor-sharp, four-inch long claws that replaced the thing's fingers. It flexed its hands a few times, as Ryan stumbled back to his feet, never breaking eye contact with the creature.

_What the hell? There was never anything like this in a Biohazard movie-_

The red zombie suddenly let off another growl and charged straight at Ryan, who barely had enough time to lift his baseball bat across in front of him to shield his throat as the creature barged into him, knocking them both onto the ground, the creature growling and snarling like a rabid beast as it tried to dig its teeth into Ryan's soft collarbone, gnashing at thin air. Ryan did the only thing he could think of as he kept the bat underneath its chin, his feet planted in the middle of its chest.

"MILES!"

A second later, he heard the rushing of foot steps, and then there was a flash of grey and a hollow 'donk' as a frying pan connected with the creature's head, and it stumbled sideways into the wall, letting out a confused grunt, before Ryan kicked it solidly in the chest with both feet, pushing it backwards through the door it had emerged from.

"Shit! You OK man?" asked Miles as he helped Ryan to his feet. "What the fuck was that?"

Before Ryan could answer, the door slammed open again and the monster sprinted out, moving at a speed far above that of all the other zombies they had seen thus far. He was just able to swing his bat around, smacking it in the side, breaking a couple of ribs and knocking it sideways, where its head smacked off of the counter with a sickening crack and a spray of blood, before collapsing entirely to the ground, not making another sound.

"Holy…shit," gasped Ryan as he looked down at the creature, but making sure not to look directly into its wide-open eyes, which somehow still held their burning gaze, even in death.

"Was that a zombie?" asked Miles as he gave it a prod with the toe of his shoe. "What the hell happened to it then? It got an upgrade somehow?"

"Who knows anymore," sighed Ryan, taking hold of Miles' shoulder and moving him away. "We need to get back before-"

A low growling from the half-open door to the back room shut them both up. Ryan glanced up, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Then he heard another growl and two pairs of hurried footsteps, heading straight towards them.

"Go! Now!" barked Ryan, and both friends made a run for the store exit, just as the door slammed open once more and two more red-skinned zombies came charging out, growling rabidly.

The two friends ducked around the corner of the far aisle and made a dash for the main exit, the two monsters on their heels all the way. Miles was the first out of the store, but Ryan slammed into his back suddenly as he came to an unannounced halt. He was about to ask what the problem was when he looked up and saw another figure stood before them in the open street, aiming some kind of firearm towards them. He froze, staring directly down the barrel towards the figure.

"Get down!"

They didn't need to be told twice, and both of them fell into a heap on the tarmac just as the rabid monsters appeared at their back, and the figure opened fire.

RATATATATAT!

Judging by the sheer rate of fire being laid down, the man carried some kind of machine gun or other fast-firing weapon, and all Ryan could hear from his lying down position was the tearing of flesh and the shattering of glass windows as some bullets went astray. A few seconds later, the firing stopped, replaced by the figure's footsteps as they passed the two students and kicked at the crumpled corpses in the doorway of the store, making sure that they were dead and gone. Ryan lowered his hands and had a moment to examine the strange emblem on the man's back before he turned to face them.

He was tall, just under six feet, dressed in what looked like combat fatigues, consisting of khaki coloured pants, an olive green shirt with the sleeves rolled up, complete with black boots, gloves and a tactical vest, from which hung a rather large-looking knife in a leather sheath, along with grenades and pockets containing spare ammunition and other supplies.

His hair was very short, almost bald, and of a deep brown colouration, his eyes of the same colour. Ryan was more focused on the massive scar down the middle of the man's face, practically bisecting his face, complete with hawk nose and thin lips, in half. The man looked down at the two survivors and cocked his head, before offering a smile.

Somehow, Ryan thought that smile was far more disturbing than everything else he had seen thus far.

* * *

Zac looked up at the imposing structure of the St Michaels clock tower and took a deep breath, before he pushed through the heavy doors on the outer wall. It was as silent as the rest of the city, he decided.

Inside the courtyard complete with a large stone fountain, a small number of crows took flight, circling in the sky a few times, framed against the sight of the moon emerging into sight, before flying to some point in the distance. He sighed and looked back into the courtyard, trying to work out where to go next. He was sure if someone had made it here ahead of him they would have made themselves know by now…or maybe not, to avoid attracting the attention of anymore zombies.

_Won't know unless I take a look for myself…_

He approached the main double doors directly ahead of where he had entered from, taking the cold handle in his hands and pausing briefly before he committed to opening the door. His encounter with those bug monsters in the back alleyway proved that zombies were the least of his concerns, and who knew what other kinds of twisted monsters were lurking in the shadows, ready to jump out and cut his head off?

But it was safer inside than out on the open streets, and that alone compelled him to push through into the building itself. The heavy door slammed shut behind him, leaving him in the somewhat musty silence of the tower's front lobby. He glanced around at the polished marble floor, the antique tables just ahead of him, the great staircase- all looked perfectly innocent, and untouched by the chaos outside. He breathed somewhat in relief.

"Hello?" he called out, hoping that someone would answer him, but only his slight echo came back to greet him. He shrugged, guessing that things would never be that easy in a situation like this. Turning to his right, he approached a plain door he could see, taking the door handle and giving it a twist. Thankfully, it was unlocked.

He peered through the crack in the doorway, calling out once more. "Hello? Anyone there who's still a human?" Nothing came back from his somewhat awkward remark, and he stepped inside what looked like the tower's cosy library.

Plenty of books had been strewn about on the floor, while those remaining on their shelves were covered in a thin layer of dust, looking as though someone hadn't been here to read in a while. He also noticed a bright green door on the wall to his right that was locked tight, its front bearing a relief of Chronos, the God of time. There was also a desk in front of him, its opened drawer filled with ink ribbons for old-fashioned typewriters, and its top bearing a picture of three antique clocks, neither of which helped him right now.

He turned away from the shelves of books and wandered down a plain wooden passageway, towards the only other door in the library he could see. That was unlocked too, and it opened into another abandoned room, a small study area by the looks of it, the central table and chairs flanked by a pair of display cabinets, one at each side wall of the room, filled with pointless nick nacks. Though this room showed some signs of recent use, there was no-one here still. He sighed in annoyance as he moved towards the door across from him, waiting to hear for any sounds of zombies lurking on the other side. When all he heard was muted silence, he opened the door and entered.

His shoes scuffed at the carpet of this well-furnished room, likely the accommodation for the tower's grounds keeper. There was a painting hanging on the wall to his immediate left, while to his right was a small table with a chair already pulled up to it, while other items of furniture dotted the room, including a large wardrobe and a well-made bed, a pile of clothes dumped unceremoniously at its bottom end.

Zac was just beginning to grow accustomed to the room's cosy feel, tempted to just lie down on the bed and go to sleep then and there, when the familiar smell hit him. A stench of decay mixed with rotten fruit. He coughed a few times and covered his mouth, immediately scanning about to try and find the source of the smell when he saw someone's foot peeking out from beneath the pile of clothing.

He carefully approached, before stooping down and carefully lifting up a discarded shirt by the collar, exposing part of someone's leg beneath the clothes. For a moment it looked like someone having a nap, but Zac somehow knew that wasn't the case.

He grimaced slightly and turned away, letting the shirt fall back into place. That nightmare in the streets must have dulled his senses somehow.

Then his tired eyes spied something else. A plain wooden cigar box was left lying overturned a few feet away, and he curiously lifted it up, his eyes going wide with surprise when he saw a handgun underneath, along with a spare ammunition clip for it. This guy must've been going for his weapon when he simply...collapsed dead on the spot? It seemed a little weird, but right now he was willing to believe anything.

He carefully picked up the weapon and checked it over for a few seconds, before making sure the safety was on before tucking it into the back of his waistband. Wouldn't do much good if he shot himself in the butt, after all. He also took the ammo clip and hid that in his jacket pocket.

Though Zac had never fired a gun before, he had once accompanied his Uncle Tommy, a self-proclaimed gun nut, who showed him the basic features for a handgun and how to fire it, so if it came to that-

A low moan shut him off from his thoughts and nearly made him jump out his skin, and he turned to see the pile of clothes shifting as the person underneath began to sit up. Zac didn't wait around to see what the zombie looked like as he turned and bolted through the door, not stopping until he was back at the entrance hall, leaning forward on bent knees and panting deeply to get his breath back.

_There's zombies in here too! Damn it!_

He was starting to doubt he would find anyone alive in here now, but he'd only checked out one side of the building: there was still the west wing to examine, as well as the upstairs floor. So without further ado-

He began to ascend the grand stairs slowly, constantly glancing back towards the door he had entered through, half-expecting that zombie from before to smash through and come after him. Nothing came though, and he soon reached the second floor, the balcony encircling the hall also made from marble, the wall to his right decorated with a number of small murals depicting religious scenes and snapshots from events hundreds years passed that occurred on the site where Raccoon City currently stood. Right now a history lesson was the last thing on his mind.

He could see huge clumps of white...'stuff', hanging in the far corners of the hall ceiling. To Zac's eyes they reminded him of the cobwebs that occupied the forgotten corners of his apartment when he hadn't cleaned up in a while...but these were much, much bigger. And after his encounter with those unpleasant bug monsters back on the streets, his racing mind was beginning to conjure up images of all kinds of horrific creatures, which did little to settle his uncomfortable feelings.

He swallowed quietly and began to cross the balcony, his sneakers squeaking as they scuffed at the floor, making a bit too much noise for his liking. He swallowed again and glanced up at the nearest clump of giant cobwebs, swearing he could have heard a light humming sound, like many feet moving across a hard surface-

Something huge and hairy suddenly scurried out from the webs, moving at a speed belying its size. Zac barely managed to suppress a scream as it came racing towards him, light reflecting off of a number of eyes as wide as dinner plates. He found himself frozen to the spot as it drew closer.

_No fucking way man!_

It was a spider, albeit a spider almost the size of a sedan, its black and yellow body surface covered in countless thick, bristly hairs, stuck rigid. Its massive fangs, dripping a clear green fluid, were almost as large as steak knives, curving out from beneath its many eyes. It just remained on the ceiling, making a wet sound with what Zac assumed was its mouth, staring right into his soul.

Zac's mind somehow knew that these kinds of monsters could be lurking in the shadows, waiting to strike, but with one right in front of him, he somehow couldn't process the sight, as the spider continued to eye him up, possibly considering the juicy meal he would make.

Finally Zac's will returned to him and he reached for the handgun holstered at his back as fast as he could manage, aiming towards the creature and pulling the trigger frantically. But nothing happened, and as he looked frantically at the weapon, he saw why.

In his haste to draw and fire, the safety was still on.

"Damn it!" he half-screamed, only meaning to think the phrase to himself.

The sound of Zac's voice suddenly spurred the spider on, and it raced towards the student, its many feet creating a light humming sound as it crossed the hall ceiling. The young man didn't even wait for anything else as he turned and raced back down the stairs, ignoring the sound of something splashing across the floor just behind him. He hit the floor hard and turned to his right, running like hell towards the double doors, the only doors he hadn't tried yet in his visit here. Praying that they weren't locked, he crashed into them shoulder-first-

-and tumbled through, falling hard on his side, knocking the wind out of him as he did. He gasped for breath and quickly used his feet to push the doors shut once again, hopefully trapping the spider back in the main hall. He continued to stare at the doors for a while longer, before he finally rose to his feet, his heart rate returning to normal. He still clutched onto the handgun with a death grip, but his mind didn't process that fact.

He finally turned to see that he was in a dining room, a huge oak table in the centre accommodating at least a dozen diners, but right now the table was only set with a dull white tablecloth and a pair of silver candlesticks. A fire place at the far side of the table only contained a small pile of ash and little else, and once more Zac could sense the cosy nature of the Clock Tower, making him feel somewhat safer in here than outside on the open streets.

But then he heard the sound of something wet being swilled around between misshapen teeth, and he immediately glanced upwards to see a huge green, misshapen lump attached to the ceiling, beside the table, next to an alcove.

_Oh no._

The creature let out a shriek of glee as it dropped to the ground effortlessly and then charged straight towards Zac, who barely had enough time to spur his legs into motion as it reared up and tired hacking at him with one of its clawed arms. His heart once again thumped into overdrive as he ran, circling the large table within a few seconds and lunging for the door in the alcove, the beast on his heels the entire way.

_Come on, come on, come on!_

He never once looked behind him as he reached for the handle, throwing the door open and falling inside, throwing it shut behind him as he did, in a scene mirrored not too long ago when he had fled that huge spider. He heard something heavy slam against the door from the opposite side, rattling it in its frame, but it held thankfully, as he also heard muffled shrieks coming from the creature, denied its next meal. Zac sighed in blessed relief as he continued to stare at the floor for a few seconds, before dragging himself up once more, wondering if this was worth it in the end.

_Must have nine lives..._

He found himself in a smaller room now, only about half the size of the dining room, a large grand piano to his left, along with a door that likely lead back outside, and some windows to his right which looked onto the street just outside. Peering through, he could discern shadowy figures moving about drunkenly. He then turned his attention back towards the piano, noticing that it was remarkably dust-free, a sign of regular use.

He suddenly perked up when he heard something else: muffled voices, from somewhere very close by. His head turned towards a wooden door opposite where he had entered from, and he approached slowly, straining to make out the voices, at least three, he reckoned.

"-it's hopeless. We sit around here for much longer-"

"You know fine well that none of them have gotten into the building itself! We're safe as long as we remain here!"

Zac came closer, pressing his ear against the door, as he listened intently to the human voices inside. The raised tone suggested that they were arguing about something or other.

"Come on Roger, be reasonable!" urged a female voice. "Don't you want your daughter to get out of here alive?"

"Don't you dare try emotional blackmail on me!" snarled the man now known as Roger in response.

"Daddy, please!" wailed a younger female.

"What if they get in?" drawled another male voice. "I don't have enough bullets to kill every single one!"

"They won't get in!"

"You don't know that for sure!" replied another man, sounding very tired now.

"My wife is buried in this town...and I'll die here if necessary!"

Zac nearly fell on his face when he heard a key being turned and the door was thrown open suddenly, and he stepped back as he suddenly found a revolver handgun being shoved into his face. His eyes went wide as he raised his hands.

"Who the hell are you?" demanded a firm voice.

"I'm not a z-z-zombie for one!" stuttered Zac, imagining what mess would be made when he was shot in the head, his brains splattered all over the floor. "I just came here to find some shelter, that's all!"

There was a long and painful pause for a few seconds, the voices in the room entirely drowned out now, before he heard the sound of the gun being lowered and slid into a leather holster. "Sorry about that buddy, guess we're all a little on edge." Zac finally opened his eyes and let out another loud exhale of relief.

He then saw the man before him, a rather stocky-looking fellow who was gradually losing his hair, wearing a white vest top and brown pants along with white sneakers, a holster tied around his body, which currently held the same weapon that had been shoved in the student's face not too long ago. The man issued a toothy smile and laughed.

"Good to see someone else who isn't a zombie walking around this place!" he exclaimed. "What's your name, son?" Zac was silent for a while, still trying to get over his recent triumvirate of shocks- his encounter with a giant spider, being chased by a giant bug, and now having a gun thrust into his terrified face.

"Z-Zac," he muttered finally. "Zac Briars."

"Good to see that you made it this far Zac," smiled the stocky man. "Is there anyone else with you or-?"

"Just me," snapped Zac. There was another silence until the stocky man finally pushed the door open fully, allowing him entry. Zac stepped through into what looked like a small chapel, its narrow aisle flanked by a number of wooden pews, with a stone altar at the far end, surrounded by numerous fancy decorations. To his immediate right was an old storage chest next to a study table holding an antique type-writer, along with other small items. But Zac took more interest in the other humans standing in the room, regarding him with weary eyes.

Standing to his right were a man and a woman, both in black business clothes, complete with shirts and ties, the man tall with closely cropped blonde hair and the woman somewhat shorter with red hair and a weary look about her. And at the back of the room was an older man with greying hair, wearing a tan jacket along with a white shirt and black dress pants. He was holding a young girl around 17 to him, most likely his daughter. She wore a pink vest top, green shorts and blue and white sneakers, her blonde hair greasy with sweat and her green eyes fearful.

"Good to see another human," sighed the tall man as he rose to his feet and moved over to shake Zac's hand. "I'm Sam, and this is Angela," he said, indicating towards the redhead, who just offered a slight smile in response. "We used to work at city hall, but when we holed up there those monsters just broke down the windows and doors and swarmed in."

"Yeah, we barely got this far," replied Angela.

"City hall?" asked Zac curiously. "What happened to the mayor?"

"Oh don't worry, Mayor Warren managed to get away in his helicopter," replied Sam bitterly. "Just a shame that he didn't wait around to help some of us left behind. That chopper could have taken another 10 people, at least!"

"Uh, I'm Joe, by the way," said the stocky man from behind Zac, trying to diffuse the somewhat uncomfortable feeling in the air now. "I own the gas station just near city hall. Had to get the hell out of dodge when there was a huge pile up just outside and those freaks came pouring in." He then pointed out the old man and his daughter at the far end,

"That's Roger and his daughter Paula."

"Hi there," said Zac, offering a little wave, but neither of them responded, just watched him with weary eyes.

"They were here long before we were," added Joe, "guess we're all very lucky to have ,made it this far."

"Yeah, sure," replied Zac quietly, moving to sit down on one of the pews. "Is there anyone else that's still alive?" he then asked to no-one in particular.

The others just looked between one another, remaining silent, though their body language said all that needed to be said. Zac lowered his head.

"Shit!"

"We could be the only ones left," noted Roger, the first time he had spoken since Zac's arrival. "The only thing out there now are those...monsters!"

"Zombies," corrected Zac, his response almost automatic.

"Well whatever they are, we're a lot safer in here," added Joe, sliding the door's bolt into place with a loud sound, before he glanced down and noticed that Zac still held his salvaged handgun in his fingers. "Where'd you get that?" Zac looked at him dumbly for a while before finally replying, his mind finally catching up and telling him he still held his weapon.

"Oh, I found it in the bedroom on the other side of the building," explained the young man. "Looks like it belonged to the groundskeeper...before he got up again."

"Wait, you mean they're already inside?" said Angela suddenly, her face turning pale.

"Hold on, there was only the one," said Zac, "and I don't think he followed me either, so we should be safe." As he saw Sam sit down to comfort her, he thought it best not to mention the giant spider he had seen lurking in the main hall, or that giant bug two rooms back...no need to make them even jumpier than necessary after all.

"You know how to use that?" asked Joe, picking up the conversation as though nothing had happened.

"No," replied Zac honestly. "I've never fired a gun before."

"Well kid, if it comes to that, there's a first time for everything," replied Joe in a morose tone as he retrieved his own weapon from its holster and snapped the cylinder open, checking it over before snapping it shut again.

Part of Zac wished that it wouldn't come to that.

* * *

Tobias Greene ducked out of sight behind a large cargo container, just as the medics wheeled in yet another patient, a guy who looked as though he'd been in a major car accident, covered in blood from head to waist. Already the cost of this 'incident' was staggering, and he hated to think what the situation was like at the other checkpoints.

As for the time being: time to get his answers.

Once he was truly out of sight, he retrieved the disposable cell phone he had received not too long ago, pressing a few keys and dialling the only number contained within...the one for this Daniel Lindeman, the same man who had rang Tobias out of the blue and asked him to report back on anything that was happening at the checkpoint. Though the exact reasons why eluded him still, he was going to get some answers one way or another.

As he dialled the number, he raised the phone to his ear and listening to the drone of the dial tone for what seemed like an age, before he finally heard Lindeman's condescending tone, sounding somewhat bored.

"I was starting to wonder when you would phone," he deadpanned.

"Save it," growled Greene, as he heard someone screaming close by. "Some hours ago a load of helicopters with the Umbrella logo flew into restricted airspace, and totally ignored all efforts to contact them. That got something to do with you and your friends with a 'vested interest'?"

Lindeman chuckled. "You could say that, my good man-"

"I'm not your 'good man'!" snapped Tobias. "I'm not an idiot either, so do you have some connection to Umbrella?"

"I never said you were," replied Lindeman, suddenly serious again. "Yes, we do have something to do with that. And what exactly, you'll find out in good time. You must remain patient is all I ask."

"No, you'll tell me now!" snapped Greene, glancing over his shoulder briefly to see if anyone was listening in. "Whatever's happened in Raccoon City has landed a lot of wounded and terrified people in our lap, and right now it stinks of complete bullshit!"

"Calm yourself, Tobias," replied Lindeman, his tone becoming condescending once more. "For now, just do your best to help everyone you can, and keep your eyes on what your fellow men are doing. I will contact you again in due time."

"Hold on a damn second-"

"Farewell."

_Click._

Tobias just continued to listen to the drone of the open line for several seconds, before he cursed quietly and slipped the phone away out of sight once again, still no clearer over this man's true intentions. All he had to go on was the suggestion that this man was connected with Umbrella. But why would a pharmaceutical company have a hand in the disaster engulfing one of their major bases in North America? It didn't even bear thinking about. And besides, Tobias was never a fan of conspiracy theories.

With a disgruntled sigh, he turned and walked back out into plain view, shouting out to a passing soldier. "Private! What's the situation?"

* * *

Gary Schaffer winced as his companion wrapped a gauze bandage around his leg wound where one of those small creatures _vomited _up by the big monster from earlier on had sank its teeth into his soft flesh. It wasn't a major wound, but still any wound inflicted out here, with no ready access to proper medical treatment and supplies could still become infected and cause further discomfort. Though it had been only an hour or so since they had left the power station, that encounter was still fresh in the front of his mind. What kind of mind could have spawned such an abomination? He had quickly learned that zombies were the least of the U.B.C.S's worries.

_Umbrella__'s mind spawned it, of course. They're not so innocent when you consider all this._

"That OK for you?" asked Mac suddenly, bringing Gary back into the here and now.

"Yeah, thanks," he sighed. "Those little bastards had pretty sharp teeth."

"That was good thinking back there, by the way," the Scotsman added suddenly.

"What?"

"Trying to lure that thing into the space behind the generator," added Mac. "I certainly never thought of doing that, so good on you lad. You got quite a bit of intiative." Schaffer just offered a small smirk as he leaned back against the wall next to him.

"Thanks," he said. "So you see, I'm not entirely useless in the end."

"Never said you were lad, never said you were."

The two U.B.C.S survivors had taken refuge in the cramped upstairs apartment of a liquor store that looked relatively untouched by the zombie hordes ravaging Raccoon City, allowing them to take a much needed break and to recharge their batteries, gorging themselves on what little food they could scrounge from the kitchen's cupboards and fridge and taking stock of their ammunition supplies. While Mac still carried a fair amount of shells for both his weapons, Schaffer was out of ammo for his M4, only having one and a half clips left, though he still carried a good amount of handgun ammo and a couple grenades.

The young man slowly rose to his feet and gazed onto the open street, watching a pair of zombies stagger by, moaning eerily as they went. Even after fighting through hell to get here, that sound still gave him the chills. "What a waste," he said finally, shaking his head. "All those people zombified, and for what?"

"Aye, they've gone too far this time," agreed Mac as he retrieved his combat knife from its sheath and used it to carve into the wooden floorboards. "Makes me wonder why I even bothered agreeing to work for them. Even after all those years I'm still being used as a puppet..."

"What do you mean?" asked Schaffer, turning back. "I thought you said that you used to be in the S.A.S?"

"Aye, but even back then I was just a tool for the bureaucrats," stated Mac flatly, "me and Will both. That's why we left. We got tired of being labelled as cold-blooded killers when we were only acting on orders from above." Schaffer said nothing as he sank back down into a seated position, and Mac watched him warily, before spinning his knife around his finger.

"What about you then?" he asked, the young man turning towards him. "What about your reason for being here? And before you say anything, get over yourself. If it's some sob story, then fine: I've heard every tale you can imagine from our comrades, so go on...try me."

Schaffer turned his head away, staring at some point on the far wall, even as Mac tossed his knife into the air and caught it deftly, repeating the action a few more times, just as the young man began speaking.

"I was an only child growing up," he started, sounding very distant. "And as a result my father expected so much of me, expected me to fulfil these great expectations. But everything I did was never good enough for him, no matter how hard I tried. I lost count of the number of times he would yell at me...the number of times he hit me."

Mac didn't bat an eyelid at that last statement as he tossed his knife a few more times. He'd heard every story imaginable, as he had explained just beforehand.

"-once he hit me so hard he knocked two of my teeth out. I was only 12 at the time, and my crime? Getting a low mark on a history exam. I just lay there on the carpet, bawling my eyes out and bleeding, and he's just stood over me screaming that he was ashamed to have me as a son. Hell, my mom was never concerned- she only cared about where her next drink was coming from. She spent more time passed out on the couch or her bed then she did raising me, taking care of me."

Schaffer's voice broke momentarily, but after a slight pause, he continued his monologue from where he had left off.

"In the end...I was 18 when I finally left home, to join the military. It was the only way I thought I could prove to my father that I was a man who was capable of doing what was needed. But that still wasn't good enough for him. I still remember our last argument...I don't remember what it was about though, but it was probably something trivial, as ever. And that was the only time I stood up to him too. He screamed in my face, I screamed right back. Then when he took a swing at me again, I just snapped."

Mac ceased his knife tossing, waiting for the next part to come, knowing full well what it would involve.

"I fought back. I knocked three of his teeth out with a single punch, and then I pushed him backwards. He fell through the glass coffee table we had in the living room. That look he had on his face when he was lying there among the broken glass, blood streaming from his mouth: it was a look of utter surprise. All those years and I never fought back, till then. That bastard looked so pathetic lying there, terrified of his own son now. Terrified that he'd lost all control over his flesh and blood."

Schaffer shifted his position, though he continued to stare at the far wall, his voice wavering now as he spoke up once more, continuing his tale.

"I walked out that house that night and never looked back, never saw my parents again. It was not long after I graduated from the academy that I heard the news that my father killed both himself and my mother in some horrific suicide pact involving an overdose of pills. Apparently he had gone off the deep end not long after I left...he had no power left over me or my mother, and he hated that more than anything else."

He finally turned towards Mac now, his eyes beginning to drip tears that rolled down his cheeks. "Do you know what I felt, when they told me that?"

Mac was silent, his face passive.

"Relief. Relief that I would never have to think about how that bastard treated me like a piece of shit he had scraped off of the sole of his shoe, relief that I didn't need to worry about my mother anymore, relief that-"

His words caught in his throat and he was unable to finish that sentence, but Mac didn't need him to as everything was said through his body language and voice. "Anyway, I only ended up here because Umbrella thought I had the right skills and gave me a good deal. No, I'm not a murderer, a traitor or a crazed killer. But it doesn't matter what happened anymore, we're still stuck in this hell hole either way," he continued, his grief giving way to a tinge of anger.

"Sure, I didn't have a loving family, I wasn't the only one. Why are you so interested anyway?"

"Because even after Umbrella dropped us into this hell hole, you still fight with every ounce of strength you command in your body," stated Mac, finally tossing his knife across the room so it embedded itself into the wall a couple of feet away from Schaffer. "You must have something left to fight for. Your freedom, perhaps?"

"Perhaps," muttered Schaffer, saying nothing else as Mac rose to his feet, slowly crossed the room, pulled his knife from the wall, and slid it back into its holster. Mac sat himself back down slowly and shrugged.

"Sure," he said eventually, not sounding fully convinced. "Rest up a bit more, and then we'll move out, right?" Schaffer just nodded in response, which was good enough for Mac, who just folded his arms in front of him and closed his eyes, intending to get some rest before they set out again.

Schaffer continued to stare at the far wall, conflicting emotions running through his head, tears beginning to form in the corners of his eyes once more. He wiped his gloved hand across his face and turned towards the window, as the moans were heard once more.

* * *

"It's too risky!" stated Zac, disputing Sam's suggestion they make a run for it.

"Well it's better than staying here to die," retorted Angela.

Zac just sat on the sidelines while the others debated amongst themselves. Well, it was becoming more and more like a slanging match now. He'd been there only a couple of hours, but within the cramped chapel it had felt much longer. It was amazing what being in a cramped room did to one's mood, he gathered. It was coming up to 11 PM and it was practically pitch black outside, though Zac could still hear the faint sounds of zombies moving about. He'd gorged himself on a couple bags of potato chips the others had managed to get into the chapel before he had arrived, and took some time to know them all. Sam and Angela seemed level-headed and decent enough, lovers most probably based on how they seemed glued at the hip, and Joe seemed a good guy as well, though he said very little.

"Sorry, but I'm not leaving this place either way!"

"Jesus Roger, you keep that act up and it'll get you killed," retorted Angela, sounding almost callous.

"Say what you like!" snapped Roger back, angrily. "My wife is buried here and it'll be a cold day in hell before I leave this city!"

But as for Roger...frankly, Zac had never met a more stubborn or bull-headed person in his life. Though he could understand where the man was coming from, his outright refusal to leave Raccoon City was just dangerous to all of them. It reminded him of a particular scene in the first Biohazard movie when the main group of survivors spent a few good scenes bickering between one another on trivial matters, only for the zombies to finally break in and kill most of them. And frankly, Zac felt sorry for the man's daughter too. Anyone would think a loving father would want his only child to escape this death trap.

"Well with all that shit going on outside, I wouldn't be surprised if hell had already frozen over," muttered Joe, getting involved in the dispute, looking straight at Roger. "Come on man, don't you at least want your daughter to get away from here safely?" he then asked, echoing Zac's thoughts.

"My mind's made up!" snarled Roger through gritted teeth. "We're staying!" That remark prompted a very visible rolling of the eyes from Joe, and just as he opened his mouth to say something else, the whole room fell into chaos. Every voice, except Zac's, rose up at once, every single voice becoming a mish-mash of random shouts and yells, interspersed with a few sobs from Roger's daughter. Zac sighed and buried his head in his hands, wanting to scream at them all to shut up and stop being so petty, but having just arrived there, he knew that his remarks wouldn't be taken well.

Just when he thought that the situation would become unsalvageable, there was a loud rapping sound, and all the voices ceased immediately.

Zac looked around at their shocked faces for a few seconds more before he realised that the sounds were from someone knocking on the locked door- from the outside.

"Somebody in there?" called a muffled male voice suddenly. "I'm human, in case you're being careful," he then added, thought the fact he could still talk normally was a dead give away of that.

"I knew it!" cried Zac suddenly, jumping to his feet and moving for the door with no prompts from anyone else. "Help came after all!" he then cried happily, as he turned the key in the lock and threw the door open halfway, to be met with a lone dirty face on the opposite side. His happy mask melted away.

"Well? Where's the rest of you?"

The man standing before Zac looked as though he'd been to hell and back- twice. His jeans, plain black shirt and battered denim jacket were coated in numerous large bloodstains and other unidentifiable substances. His weary face was covered in blood and grime too, his dark brown hair matted and greasy through. Only his tired green eyes showed clearly through all the mess caked over his features. He only looked a few years older than Zac, but the student took more notice in the handgun holstered at the man's hip, the shotgun slung over his shoulder, and the submachine gun he clutched in his right hand, a utility belt on his waistband probably loaded with ammo. He looked like a literal one man army.

"Just me," the man deadpanned, before adding, "are you going to let me in then or not?" His facial expression looked as though he had no time for this pansy bullshit, after fighting through the horrors outside.

Zac cast a quick glance back at the others, but none of them moved to say otherwise to let the man in. "Oh fine, come on in then," the student finally said, sounding deflated as he moved back into the room to let the new arrival enter. As the man entered, he looked around for several quiet seconds, presumably taking in the features and the other people he could see. The others regarded him quietly, though Roger and Paula seemed to draw back, fearful. But this man was covered from head to toe in dried blood and grime- without the weapons he was carrying and that fact he could talk, he may as well have been a zombie himself.

"You're pretty lucky to have made it this far," said Zac finally as he moved to the back of the room and sat himself down on the altar, the others letting him speak for them despite the fact he hadn't been there that long, hadn't established any sort of personal authority. "You a cop or something?"

"Actually, I am," nodded the man. "Although it looks like I'm the only one left in this god-forsaken place," he then added, his voice lowering. Looked as though he was bringing up painful, recent memories.

"What?" spluttered Roger as frightened whispers went around, at the fact the only cop left alive in Raccoon had found them. "That can't be possible! How can _all _of Raccoon's police officers be dead? Every one of them?" His voice was bordering on the hysterical by the time the police officer glared towards him angrily.

"Well excuse me sir," he said sarcastically, "next time I get the chance I'll ask the commissioner to make sure our new training regime includes how to battle crazy bastards trying to rip your arms off and who can take a dozen shots to the chest before going down." He didn't shout or raise his voice at all, but the measured anger was enough to silence Roger, who just stared up wide-eyed at the officer as he continued to hold onto his daughter protectively.

"Come on now children, let's not fight shall we?" said Sam with a mocking tone as he rose to his feet, intending to diffuse the situation, as the officer sat down on one of the abandoned pews, setting his SMG down and stretching his legs out. "What's your name officer?" he then asked, wanting to be friendly.

The man offered a slight smirk before replying. "Dean Travers. But please, call me Dean."

**A/N: And another one bites the dust, as Freddie Mercury once sang. The final part of this chapter, where Dean finds the survivors in the chapel, is a mirror of the same scene seen in Chapter 10 of The Fall of Raccoon, my main fanfic which features Dean as its main character, and is rapidly coming to a close, so those of you reading this fic haven't seen that one yet, at least take a look, as there are parts where the two stories weave in on one another. (and also the fact I can't resist a shameless plug of course)**** Those following my other fic will know the scene isn't recreated exactly here, but I did make a little change as in TFOR the survivors know Dean's name before he even tells them. So either they're physic or I messed up. Probably the latter.**

**In other news, I got Dead Rising 2 recently, and I love it so far, even though I never played the original (but I watched someone's let's play of it on youtube so I know the story etc.)- Who'd have thought that taping a fire axe to a sledgehammer would be so effective? Or that taping a load of knives to a pair of boxing gloves to do your best wolverine impression would work as well? As an aside, the name 'Frank Greene', the hero of the Biohazard movie series, is taken from the main characters of both Dead Rising games: Frank West and Chuck Greene respectively (I like the latter more, mainly cause of the awesome leather jacket).**

**This is also my first chapter on this site completed on my new laptop, as my old one that had Windows XP and Office 2003 was beginning to slow right down and show a load of other issues, so it was time for an upgrade thankfully. Currently I'm still getting used to Word 2007 and what not, but hopefully upcoming updates should be coming at least somewhat faster now. **

**Anyhoo, R+R as usual please. All feedback, positive or otherwise, is appreciated.**


	9. Integrity and Ignorance

**A/N: Happy 2011 to everyone on the site!**

Chapter 9: Integrity and Ignorance

**September 27****th**** 0548 hours**

Raccoon City Correctional Facility was one of the oldest buildings in the city's history, originally built back in the 1960's, shortly after the city's founding, constructed at the crest of a hill just outside the North western region of the town borders. Though it was by no means the largest prison facility in the Raccoon County area, it could still hold a maximum inmate population of 150, mainly criminals from the city itself and the other neighbouring towns. Although its perimeter walls were crumbling and its iron gates rusting away, the facility remained standing firmly.

Until now, it seemed. At the moment, a large crowd of nearly a hundred people gathered around the closed main gates, pressing against them and moaning in a haunting manner, while several more approached in staggered groups along the road, from the direction of the burning city. The massive gates, constructed from thick iron and reinforced with steel bands, groaned as the crowd pushed against it. They wouldn't last much longer, it seemed.

A lone figure stood tall in one of the sheltered guard towers to the right of the gates, just watching the crowd with a stern look on his face. He was just over six feet tall, with a muscular build, and dressed in the standard garb of Raccoon County CO's: black pants, black dress shoes, light grey short-sleeved shirt with a brass badge pinned to the breast, and a holster for his sidearm at his right hip, which currently contained an STI Eagle 6.0 handgun, complete with a top-mounted laser sight. He had brown hair and eyes, along with a thick moustache on his upper lip, his thick eyebrows crossed in a hard frown.

James Salt was 42 years of age and had served as the facility's warden for the last five years. Having previously served in the US Marine Corps and holding the rank of Lieutenant by the end of the Gulf War, he ran the prison staff as strictly as he ran his platoon back in the desert; a true sucker for discipline and perfection. But it was a method that worked, and under his command the prison hadn't seen a single riot since his election as warden. It was something he was proud of, something he pored all his time and energy into, despite the fact his bitch of an ex-wife said the job was the main reason why they divorced in the first place.

But at the moment Warden Salt was feeling rather uncomfortable, despite the fact it didn't show on his face. In the wake of the recent cannibal murders, he had half expected his prison to receive delivery of the perpetrators sooner or later, but nothing came. There was a feeling of dread in the air, and it had all come to a head yesterday. After half of his guards failed to report for work (not even calling in sick), he had sent two of his remaining guards, Floyd and Richards, out to check out the town.

Only Floyd came back, on foot and covered in blood, screaming and ranting about the 'crazies' swarming through the streets. They had barely got him inside and sealed the doors when said 'crazies' appeared, staggering up the road or even emerging from the trees at the edge of the prison, beating at the doors. Immediately after that, communications with the R.P.D, and the entire city, was lost. Even from the towers and the roof of the main building they could see the fires razing the city to the ground, the pillars of black smoke which rapidly choked the skies.

And things had quickly gone from bad to worse, when a few more of the staff, nursing what was only 'a bad cough and slight fever', suddenly turned insane themselves and attacked their colleagues, tearing into them with their bare teeth. Salt had been forced to shoot one of the cooks and Doctor Cavelari dead to stop them killing anyone else, not something he had enjoyed in the slightest, their bodies now dumped out in the prison's rear loading bay. That left him with seven other guards and a number of non-coms staff under his leadership, watching over an under-populated cell block containing just fewer than 30 inmates, the others having been transported to other holding facilities in the county.

Knowing that help wouldn't be coming, Salt had instead ordered his remaining guards to bed down, constructing barricades out of any furniture they could find in the prison, from the desks and filing cabinets in the admin offices, to the pews from the small chapel, the tables in the canteen and the beds from all unoccupied cells. Looking down, he could see at least three solid lines of barricade in the main yard below him, with two of his best men, Plainview and Morales, standing guard as the main gates groaned under the strain, dressed in full riot body armour, the emblem of the facility bared on their left shoulder pad. He also had another of his remaining guards, Peirce, standing guard in the opposite tower, but it didn't last long before his eyes were ripped out by a flock of maddened crowds and he tumbled from the tower to the ground below. The tower remained empty.

It partly felt as though this were just another mission, and he was preparing for an assault from an enemy regiment that would come screaming down on the prison gates and walls. But the rest of him knew that this wasn't a regular military mission; this was something else entirely.

He looked back down at the crowd pressing against the doors, examining them with muted interest. A few of them looked up at him, their eyes just pale white orbs with no trace of emotion, the moans coming from their slack mouths further emphasizing this characteristic. They were all dressed in different manners, but what was obvious was the fact that they were the citizens of Raccoon City. He could even see a few people dressed as R.P.D officers within the seething mass, fighting as hard as the others to get through the closed doors.

Something very bad had happened in Raccoon City- that much was certain. The citizens had been afflicted with something that had driven them crazy, imploring them to attack anyone else they could find. The term that Floyd had used, 'Crazies', seemed to fit them very well. And it was the same thing that had happened to the two people Salt had been forced to shoot: easily taking several shots to the torso before going down.

"Warden!" called a voice from below him, and he looked around and down, before descending the circular stairs into the 2nd floor corridor, where he was met by his 2nd in command, Peyton Jessop, a somewhat weedy-looking man wearing black-rimmed spectacles and holding an old-fashioned M14 rifle in his right hand. Despite the fact he hardly looked prison-guard material, Jessop was as smart as a whip, and could act fast on his feet. His photographic memory also made him a valuable asset as the warden's right hand, knowing everything about everyone under the prison's roof.

"What is it Jessop?" asked Salt as he began to stalk down the corridor, passing by the entrance to the admin offices (almost entirely stripped of its furniture) and the security centre, where another of the warden's remaining guards, Barges, sat in a swivel seat watching the numerous security screens placed around the prison. He looked about ready to pass out on the spot.

"Warden, we can't stay here for much longer," explained Jessop as the warden examined the screens before him. "It's only a matter of time before those crazies break in, and then"-

"Thank you for stating the obvious, once again," growled Salt as he watch a feed showing the main doors straining and threatening to buckle. "I guess riding this storm out isn't possible anymore," he then added, leaving the room and heading down towards the Armoury, the next door down, where another guard, Macolm Dennis, stood guard with a vintage M14 rifle. The thin man nodded as the warden passed.

"So…what do we do then?" asked Jessop as he nipped at the warden's heels. "When it comes to a fight, we only have eight people in this whole building who can use a gun, and there's a crowd of nearly a hundred out there! Even the barricades won't slow them for long!"

"I know," replied the warden with annoyance as he passed the thick steel armoury door and entered the stairwell, descending to the first floor. The actual prison building itself was in the form of an inverted 'L' shape, the cell block located at the far north side of the building, the other rooms scattered throughout. The canteen and the guards quarters were among those on the 1st floor, though now those rooms were practically empty now, all furniture ripped out and used in the numerous barricades throughout the prison, including the three that divided this wide corridor into three separate sections.

"And I know our food supplies run low as well," added Warden Salt as he pushed through the double doors into the Guards Quarters, heading towards the infirmary in the back. "But that is bound to happen with over 50 personnel and inmates to cater for."

Salt opened the infirmary door to see Floyd laid out on a filthy-looking white mattress, his skin ashen white and his eyes closed. He was being tended to by Doctor Malone, the other doctor that worked within the prison. He looked up with heavy, tired eyes and slowly shook his head, his sleeves rolled up.

"What's happened to him Doctor?" asked Salt, flatly.

"His fever's at a ridiculous temperature, he's suffering from nausea…all I can say is it must be some type of infection," replied Malone as he stood up from the bed and moved over to a nearby wash basin to clean his hands in cold water. "But what type of infection…I have no clue. It's nothing I've ever seen before, not in my 15 years as a medical practitioner."

"Well that's just perfect," muttered Jessop shaking his head. "We've got a load of crazies banging at the doors and now Floyd's infected with something our doctor has no clue about...! No offence doctor," he then added, though the tension was clearly getting to him. Salt retained his calm demeanour, as his subordinate turned away and rubbed the back of his head.

"Infection from what, doctor?" he asked instead. "That scratch wound he had when he returned?" he then inquired, pointing towards the wound on Floyd's left forearm, a scratch that had barely broken through the man's skin, except now it had turned septic, oozing pus and blood despite the fact Malone wiped it clean every couple of hours and applied disinfectant.

"Maybe," replied the doctor, "as otherwise he has no other visible wounds on his body."

"Doc!" said Jessop suddenly, and all eyes turned towards Floyd, whose body was being racked with violent spasms now, foaming at the mouth as his eyes rolled back into his skull.

"Shit, he's going into shock! Hold him down!" barked Malone, and Jessop and Salt immediately moved forwards, pinning Floyd's arms and legs to the mattress, requiring full force to stop him dislocating his neck as he thrashed about, the mattress threatening to snap under the savage motions. Doctor Malone grabbed for a vial of morphine and pressed down onto Floyd's chest, looking for a useable vein in his arm to inject into. He soon found one, removing the vial's rubber plunger with his teeth and spitting it out, before pushing it into his flesh and injecting it.

Floyd's jerking motions finally died out, but only to be replaced by a long, drawn-out sigh emanating from the man's lungs. Salt knew that noise anywhere: a dying man's death rattle, a sound he had heard more than a few times during his time in the Gulf Campaign, after watching the man next to him having his guts almost blown out by a long-range sniper shot. Floyd's head lulled to the side, his eyes closed, his chest no longer rising or falling. He was dead.

"Aw shit," whispered Jessop as he rose to his feet, rubbing his forehead as he stepped outside of the infirmary, before the warden heard him curse loudly. Malone looked down at Floyd for a while longer, and then rose to his feet, looking over at the warden sadly.

"Just like Cavaleri," he said, referring to his senior's manner of death, which had been in an almost identical manner, going into shock and then just dropping dead on the spot, before coming back moments later to try and kill his work colleagues.

"You did your best doc," replied Salt, trying to be sympathetic, but came off just sounding a bit wooden and forced. Anyone working underneath Salt knew that the warden was never one for messing about with emotions. "Come on, we need to get him moved."

"So soon?" asked Malone in a voice that was barely above a whisper, as he looked back at the body, discarded like a puppet.

"We can't have him clogging up the infirmary," explained Salt. "And besides, we don't want this place being stunk out either." Malone gave him a look which showed that he didn't full agree with what he'd just been told, but at the same time he knew he had no other choice in the matter. The dead men out back wouldn't be getting a decent burial anytime soon.

"OK," he said quietly, tossing the empty morphine aside and moving to take a hold of Floyd's legs, when another sound entered their ears.

There was a low, deathly moan from Floyd's body, and they both turned their eyes towards the body on the bed behind them, to see the small amounts of movement, almost as though Floyd was just rising from a long sleep. But Salt knew better and slowly reached for the STI Eagle at his hip, remembering Cavaleri's fate.

"No…he was dead! He had no pulse!" wailed Malone, just as Floyd suddenly sat upright and lunged towards his former warden with outstretched arms.

"Move!" barked Salt as he shoved Malone to the ground and then raised his leg, planting a kick into the middle of the late guard's chest and slamming him backwards against the wall above the bed, cracking the plaster and giving the other two enough room to back away as Floyd struggled back to his feet, his eyes as pale and empty as the people outside the gate.

"Don't make me do it," urged the warden, shaking his head slightly as Floyd tried to step towards his former boss, issuing a weak moan from the back of his throat. James Salt sighed briefly before his took his next inevitable course of action.

BANG!

Floyd slammed back against the wall, his brains painted up the plaster almost to the ceiling, as he slid slowly to the ground. Salt continued to stare at the body for a while, as Malone lay a few feet away, breathing hard as he stared wide-eyed at the body, a perfect shot to the head. A few seconds later, Jessop came bustling into the room behind, and took the whole scene in within a couple of seconds.

"Aw, shit!" he cursed, as Salt holstered his sidearm.

"Get him upstairs," ordered Warden Salt, as he turned and left the room, not wanting to dwell too much on Floyd's final fate. Jessop and Malone looked between one another briefly, and then back at Floyd's departed body, before moving over to shift it out of the way, as ordered by the warden.

James Salt quickly ascended the steps to the second floor, passing by the armoury door once more where Dennis stood guard. "Sir, what happened?" he asked with genuine concern. Salt paused in his stride and sighed, lowering his shoulders.

"Floyd went crazy, just like the others," he explained. "I had no choice."

"Shame," the guard replied quietly. "Floyd was a good man."

"I know."

"But where does that leave the rest of us?" asked Dennis suddenly.

"What do you mean, boy?" asked the warden. Dennis paused for a while before answering, choosing his words.

"Well it's only a matter of time before those doors get smashed down, and then we're stuck in these four walls with over a hundred crazy bastards trying to kill us"-

"-your concern is noted, as with everyone else's," sighed Salt, partially in annoyance. He knew that the situation was a desperate one, but what else was he supposed to do? He had an obligation to look out for these men and keep them safe, but it was just them against god knew how many of those 'crazies'. And help wasn't coming either, but he didn't voice that out loud as he stepped past Dennis and into the security room. Last thing he needed was them all to go hysterical on him.

"How does it look, Barges?" asked the warden, as the slightly overweight nervous-looking figure of Raymond Barges turned to regard his superior.

"S-still no change warden," the man stammered, indicating the security feeds. "Though it seems more of those crazies have turned up since your last visit..." he then trailed off as he indicated the camera showing just outside the prison gates, and the seething mass of rotted bodies that beat against the thick wood with their bare hands, threatening to smash through any moment.

"Warden...if those things do get in then we only have eight bodies to defend this place with," stated Barges, indicating the security feeds showing the other rooms and corridors around the prison building, most of them practically empty what with all remaining guards on other duties now. "And I'm pretty sure there's over a hundred of those...crazies outside."

"What do you mean we've only got eight bodies?" replied the Warden, having a sudden thought. A thought that the governor would never approve of, not in a thousand years.

"Uh, sir?" asked Barges, seriously confused.

"Well the way I see it...we've got plenty of bodies, right there," the warden added, pointing at one of the screens, showing the prison inmates, clad in their orange jumpsuits, wandering back and forth inside their cells. He then promptly turned and left the room, not even pausing long enough to see the astonished look on Barges' face.

* * *

Elsewhere in town, in the Cider District, a lot of noise could be heard. Loud cheers and whoops, mixed in with loud rap and other 'underground' music, could be heard emanating from an abandoned car lot on the edge of the district, where nearly fifty persons could be found, acting as though the apocalypse had never happened. Just outside of the main double gates leading into the lot, a pair of men wearing baggy pants and white vests stood, armed with sawn-off shotguns and revolvers tucked into the back of their waistbands. Both of them also wore orange bandanas tied around their heads, and had elaborate tattoos of scorpions on their arms.

Within the gates, many more men in similar attire stood around with their girlfriends, or among one another, drinking from bottles of beer, smoking tobacco and other substances, others gathering around a makeshift music deck where a rather scrawny-looking teenager wearing over-sized ear protectors worked with a large boom-box and a disc player, blaring out some rather loud gangster rap music that the crowd seemed to approve of. Several battered-looking chairs and other furniture littered the lot, half of it taken up by inebriated or unconscious men, all of them wearing some item of orange clothing and had a scorpion tattoo on their body. Elsewhere, more young men in orange and white clothing worked on stacking up numerous electronic items, including stereos, TV sets, speaker units, and many more.

They were the Scorpions, one of the more prominent street gangs active in Raccoon City, with a hand in burglary, gun-trafficking, drugs, and many other illicit activities. They also had a reputation as the most violent gang in the city, prone to drawing their weapons and opening fire when challenged by rival gangs or the police, rather than running for it. Speaking of which, the body of a blonde-haired man in the uniform of the R.P.D was currently being held aloft on a crudely-fashioned wooden crucifix, right in the centre of the lot. His chest had been ripped open by an almost point-blank shotgun blast, part of a sick joke by one member who had come across the lone officer and wasted no time in executing him.

At the far end of the lot, on top of a couch that was beginning to fall apart in places, was a tall, muscular man in his early thirties, his head shaved and his upper arms decorated with numerous spiral patterns, and his bare back decorated with a massive portrait of a Scorpion, the gang's namesake. He looked out across his fellow gang bangers, and offered a slight smile to himself.

He was Jerome Kincade, the leader of the Scorpions. Even as leader of the most violent gang in the city, Kincade's reputation overshadowed everything else his gang had participated in. Having brutally murdered his abusive drunk of a father at the age of 18, Kincade spent most of his life in jail, before finally being paroled over a year and a half ago, when he then returned to his old gang, and then working his way up to the position of leader, shortly after the body of his predecessor was find dumped in a back alley with three dozen knife wounds. The R.P.D never did find his killer(s).

Kincade was a true sociopath through and through, and though some members of his gang would normally attempt to conduct business through peaceful means, sooner or later they would end up resorting to violence, just because Kincade would have it no other way. And since he used violence to keep them all in line as well, they had no choice in the matter.

"Yeah, that's what I'm talking about!" he laughed in his commanding voice as a few of his underlings piled a few more high-shelf TV sets down on the ground near to the lot entrance, where the other fruits of the gang's labours rested. He then took in a big drag of his joint, before exhaling a large cloud of foul-smelling smoke. Suffice to say, Kincade was looking rather pleased with himself right now.

The zombie apocalypse may have gutted the entire town and left over half of the Scorpion's numbers dead, but it had also gutted the R.P.D, the gang's greatest enemy, as far as Kincade was concerned. One of his scouts have given him the news of them being almost wiped out to the man at a barricade on Raccoon Street, and the few remaining likely had far bigger things on their mind right now. In short, the Scorpions were free. Kincade and his boys could do what the hell they liked now. Hence the impromptu party going on right now.

Standing near to Kincade's throne was a Hispanic man, 23 years of age, his head shaven and his arms and neck dotted with numerous tattoos, including the one of a scorpion on the left side of his neck. Hector Mendez remained silent as he looked around at his fellow gang bangers, half of his mind pitying them for their behaviour. Mendez was something of a rarity in the Scorpions: someone who was level-headed.

Though he served as Kincade's foremost Lieutenant, he much preferred to solve matters through the use of logic and mediation rather than pulling a gun on every person who dared to stand against them. As he pointed out to Kincade, not leaving a trail of bodies behind them meant the police wouldn't come down on them so hard, and that logic seemed to convince the gang boss of Mendez's worth, even if half of the gang saw him as a gutless coward and a pussy.

Right now, none of that mattered. Mendez knew fine well what those zombies out there were capable of after a whole crowd of them had ripped through over half a dozen Scorpions he was leading to safety through the Cider District shortly after the troubles had ended. The chaos around him was insane, his ears clogged with the screams of the dying, the gunfire from civilians fighting back against the monsters, and the constant groans of their undead tormentors. He also could still taste the gunpowder and blood on the back of his tongue as well, when he had unloaded his .357 revolver into the skulls of those that blocked his path, splattering himself in blood and gore.

Mendez knew that they had to get out of the city, not sit around drinking and getting out of their minds on all sorts of drugs like it was a cause for celebration. The Scorpions were playing with fire, and it was only a matter of time until they all got burnt badly. He'd have to take it up with Kincade again-

He was broken out of his thoughts when the double doors into the lot crashed open and a pair of Scorpion soldiers scrambled inside, one of them hurriedly slamming the door shut behind them, gasping for breath. Almost immediately all eyes in that lot turned in their direction, seeing the blood splattered across the front of one of them. Kincade rose to his feet and turned towards the music desk.

"Kill the music, now!" he demanded, and immediately the music cut out, leaving just the panted breathing of the two new arrivals, one of them looking as though he would pass out on the spot, but Kincade took no notice of that fact as he walked slowly towards them, raising his arms on either side of him as if in disbelief.

"What the hell, man?" he asked, towering over everyone else due to the fact his seat was set on a raised steel platform so he could look down on the other members of his gang, further boosting his impressive ego. "Where the hell are the others, Dutch? And where's our stuff that I sent you to get?"

"The others are dead, boss!" yelled the one now known as Dutch, stress evident in his raised voice. "Those goddamn zombie freaks swarmed us at the store! Me and Hooch barely got out with our lives!" he continued, as a rather shaken-looking Hooch moved forward, shaking his head and muttering to himself, seemingly unaware of everyone else around him. Many of them were looking rather spooked now. The others were too high on alcohol and other substances to care either way.

"Oh yeah?" asked the brutish gang boss, dropping from his platform onto level ground, where even from there he towered over everyone else, his powerful physique normally enough to scare his enemies into submission. "So why are you still alive? You and Hooch yellow-bellied cowards?"

"What is your effing problem?" half-screamed Dutch, right in Kincade's face, his terror at almost being killed overriding his fear. "We could've all died out there, and then that would have been a damn waste!"

"I don't have cowards in the Scorpions," growled Kincade, his jaw set as he ignored the soldier's outburst. "I made that clear to you when you joined." Dutch seemed to back down for a moment, but then he was right back in Kincade's face, screaming at the top of his voice.

"The Scorpions are dropping like flies! You keep sending us out into that hellhole, and sooner or later there won't be anyone left to loot all those damn stores in the city! Hell, it's only a matter of time until they come here too!" Kincade remained passive as Dutch continued his rant, before he began to back away slowly, a crazed grin playing about his features.

"You want to sit there on your fat ass and party like it's the New Millenium, be my guest!" he shouted, moving back towards the gates. "But I for one am not going to just stand around and let those fuckers eat me alive...I'm going while I stay can. Anyone else wants to come with me, feel free to do so." With that said he turned casually and began to walk towards the gates, moving to open them.

Behind him, Kincade continued to regard Dutch with an intense glare, before reaching behind him and pulling out a Desert Eagle handgun, setting the sights on Dutch's back.

BLAM!

There was a massive explosion of blood as Dutch's torso erupted into a spray of red and shards of bone. The man didn't even have time to cry out: instead he just crashed forwards onto the ground as his blood sprayed across the closed doors and onto the shocked faces of those nearby. A few screams went up, even as Kincade turned towards Hooch and raised his weapon again. The man backed up, eyes wide and hands raised.

"Boss-!"

BLAM!

Hooch tumbled to the ground, his skull reduced to almost nothing.

"Who's the boss around here?" yelled Kincade at all the others, angrily waving his Desert Eagle around at the shocked faces surrounding him. "I'M THE FUCKING BOSS! YOU ALL LISTEN TO ME!" he continued, his ranting becoming almost psychotic in nature. And based on his execution of two of his own men, it would be reasonable to assume that.

"We are going to stay right here," said Kincade slowly as he sat back down on his 'throne', waving his Desert Eagle around randomly, causing a few nearby Scorpions to back away cautiously, and then flinching as their boss yelled at them, pointing his gun into the bargain. "You two! Get their bodies moved outside," he ordered, and then when they hesitated, he added, "NOW!"

"Yes boss!" they called, rushing forward to move Dutch and Hooch's bodies.

"After all, we can't have a party with brains and blood splattered everywhere, can we?" he then laughed, only to be met by a nervous silence and a few strong glares as Dutch's ruptured body was dragged out through the double gates. Behind all of this, Mendez just stood in silence, glaring hatefully at his leader's back.

_You arrogant bastard- you've consigned us all to death._

* * *

"Do it."

Jessop gave Warden Salt one of those 'are we about to make a huge mistake' looks, before he threw the switch and there was a loud beeping sound as all the cell doors in the cell block unlocked, leaving a lot of confused-looking inmates standing there.

"Get down here and line up, now," ordered Matthew Plainview as he covered the cell block with his M14 rifle. "Any of you even _consider _trying to run for it or take a swing at us and I'll blow your guts out." Plainview was tall and brutish-looking, not afraid to get stuck in to any riot to crack a few skulls, and in his full riot armour and helmet, he looked thrice as intimidating now. The inmates slowly made their way to the ground floor of the cell block, a row of almost 30 orange-clad bodies facing four armed CO's. There was a slight hint of nerves in the air, but otherwise many of the inmates regarded their guards with an intense stare.

"OK ladies," said Salt as he walked up and down the front of the line, a Benelli M4 shotgun resting against his shoulder. "The only reason we let you out is because we need some help."

Several scoffs and sarcastic laughs went up, as a Hispanic man with his neck and lower arms covered in tattoos stepped forward, waving his arms in a threatening manner. "What the hell? You keep us cooped up in these damn cells, don't tell us a damned thing, and now you let us out and want our _help?_" A few shouts of agreement went up, closely followed by a maelstrom of angry voices.

BOOM!

They were immediately silenced as the warden unloaded a round of buckshot into the cellblock's ceiling, plaster dust trailing down around him. He regarded them intensely for several seconds, before he racked a fresh shell, the _cha-chunk _sound reverberating through the cavernous room.

"As you can see, I've got lethal ammunition loaded into this baby," sated Salt as a few of the inmates looked like rabbits caught in the headlights of a car. It was true that the CO's normally loaded their shotguns with rubber rounds when quelling riots...but at the moment the lethal buckshot and slugs they had dug out of the armoury would be needed very soon.

"-and you don't have a choice either way," he added. "If you stay in those cells, we're all dead. But if you come and help, then we might just stand a chance."

"Stand a chance against what?" asked a quiet voice as an inmate in his early 40's, tall and broad-shouldered, his cold green eyes accompanied by several days worth of stubble, a shaven head, and a scarred right cheek. He narrowed his eyes at the warden and his CO's, showing no fear whatsoever. "I don't think you expect us all to be psychic?"

Frederick Doyle was a man never to be pegged as a criminal prior to his being sent here. A regular family man with a steady job, it was unknown what exactly prompted him to go home one fateful night and hack his wife and two daughters to death with a steak knife. And matters only became more complicated when he came to the facility, where he wasted no time in establishing himself as the 'Mr Big' of the prison, meaning that he knew about everything that went on, and if the other inmates wanted anything, they came to him first. Doyle had also shown flashes of his violent side, once shivving a fellow inmate to death in the showers, an event he never showed remorse for, even after spending 3 weeks in solitary confinement.

"And besides," added the man, folding his arms before him, "what's stopping us overpowering all of you and just making a run for freedom?"

"Because you won't get very far, trust me," replied Salt, standing his ground, even as Jessop looked very nervous, knuckles whitening around his M14. "When you look out those gates out there, you'll see exactly what I mean. So again, you've got a choice. You can either stay and die in those cells, or you can fight with us."

"Always to the point, eh warden?" chuckled Doyle, looking back towards the other inmates who shared nods between one another. "But what if I still didn't believe you? What if we thought this was all just a load of bullshit?" The other inmates began to speak up now, many of them making threatening gestures towards the CO's present, though Plainview stood his ground, sweeping his M14 back and forth between the orange-clad men.

"Then how about we show you?" replied Salt, earning a shocked glance from Jessop. "You and a couple others come and see what's happening from the watchtower. And it's just not happening here- it's across the entire city." Doyle buried his tongue into his cheek as he pondered this offer, the other inmates remaining totally silent. They knew better than to interrupt Doyle when he was mulling something over.

"Fine," the prison boss replied. "Goose and Harker, come with me now."

A few minutes later, Doyle and his two accomplices were stood atop one of the main gate watchtowers alongside Warden Salt and Plainview, just looking out across the seething crowd milling outside of the groaning prison gates; that moaning, rotten crowd of nearly two hundred figures now, several of them gazing up with empty eyes, hands clawing feebly at the air.

"My God..." was all Doyle whispered in response to the horrific sights, even as his eyes turned towards the city itself, at the numerous pillars of black smoke that reached to the heavens.

"So you see"- began Salt as he used one of his hands to indicate the general scene, "you and your buddies just can't walk out the front doors and run free. We don't know what those things are, but they're not friendly, and they know there's fresh meat inside these walls. So you have two choices Doyle," he then finished, walking right up to look the murderer in the eye.

"You can fight, or die. That simple." He spoke those last two words separately to emphasise his point.

Doyle narrowed his eyes and bit his bottom lip while he contemplated those choices for a few seconds, but anyone would have chosen just the one option, given the circumstances.

"Fine, I guess we're fighting. What do you need us to do, Warden?"

"First things first, we need to get a plan together," replied Salt. "Come on, we'll head back to the cell block."

* * *

Leroy Carlson of the Scorpions snorted another line of the white powder from off of the fold-out table set up just in front of him, before staring into the blackened sky, letting off a giddy laugh as he then collapsed into a heap on the floor, everything around him blurred into a mass of colours and random shapes.

"Hey, this is some good shit man!" he laughed, directed towards his friend Cole who was slumped up against a sheet of corrugated iron a few feet away from the table coated with a white residue, oblivious to the fact that Cole had been passed out for the last half hour, his sawn-off shotgun resting beside him. When he received no response, he waved his hand casually towards his unconscious friend. "Fine, suit yourself...no fun at all," he slurred.

Leroy had good reason to be happy: only a week out of the slammer, and not only had the police and any other form of authority been wiped out by the sick-looking people who had swept through the town, but his jackass of a parole officer had been killed too, the side of his neck ripped out by someone's bare teeth as he tried to flee. Hence, Leroy's old habit could be satisfied to no end now.

He could still hear the sounds of the party going on a short distance down the road he was on, which had picked up again after the sounds of gunfire and angry shouting from Kincade had killed the mood. Shortly afterwards he had seen the gates open and seen a couple of his comrades dragging a pair of bodies out and dropping them into the storm drain just opposite the gates, one of them with his head busted open like a watermelon. He had shouted and waved at them, but they ignored him, no doubt still seeing him as 'that no-good base head', in Kincade's own words.

Though with so many of the gang dead following recent events, he was due for a promotion sometime soon: it was inevitable. Soon he'd show them all just what he could do!

He heard a sound to his right and turned, in time to see a blurry outline of a person in baggy pants, white vest and orange puffer jacket coming towards him slowly. He'd recognise who that jacket belonged to anywhere.

"Hey...It's Payne! Hey Cole! It's Payne, he's back!" he said excitedly, turning towards his still unconscious companion, who had now slumped fully to the ground, eyes closed. Leroy ignored him as he got to his feet and began to stumble towards Payne.

"Hey dude! I knew that you weren't dead!" he half-laughed, half-cried, as he struggled to walk straight, throwing one hand to steady himself against the wall. "They said you were being eaten by those freaks! But I knew that you were way too tough for that!"

Payne only offered a weak groan in reply as he continued to stagger towards Leroy, at a somewhat faster pace now. As he drew closer, the stench of rotten fruit and something sour pricked the air, but Leroy was too far gone to pay any particular attention to that smell.

"Hey, you allright man?" asked Leroy as he put his hand on Payne's shoulder. In response the bigger man suddenly latched onto the addict's wrist and pulled his arm close towards his mouth. A second later there was a sick _crunch _sound and Leroy yelped in pain, pulling back in shock and falling against the wall.

"What the fuck man?" he wailed, staring at the bite wound on his arm, at the glistening exposed flesh and muscle as blood streamed down his arm and dripped onto the tarmac. "What the fuck was that for man?" He then glanced up at Payne, who continued to advance on his former friend, blood dripping down his chin and staining the front of his chest.

It was only then, through the haze of shock and adrenaline, that Leroy saw that Payne's eyes were just glossed-over marbles set into his skull. He moaned slackly as he reached out with bony, blood-stained fingers towards Leroy, who just slid to the ground slowly, shaking his head.

"No way man," he whispered frantically. "No fucking way..." He didn't even scream as Payne leaned in close to eat him alive, along with the other sick people that had suddenly gathered from out of the shadows.

* * *

Kincade glowered quietly as he sat on his 'throne', watching his people run to and fro. They had quietened down a lot since Dutch and Hooch's deaths, many of them giving their leader fearful looks, but saying nothing, lest he do the same to them without hesistation. His desert eagle was constantly in his hand now, ready in case he had to assert his leadership once again.

_Yellow-bellied pieces of trash...this gang needs a serious re-org._

He suddenly noticed Mendez step directly in front of his line of sight, arms folded before his chest, wearing that damn look on his face that suggested he wasn't best pleased about something or other. Kincade rolled his eyes and sat up in his seat.

"What is it?" he growled, not even giving the common courtesy of referring to his foremost lieutenant by name.

"You know fine well, Kincade," retorted Mendez in a confrontational tone, and that prompted the gang leader to rise to his feet, his mouth twitching slightly. He looked on the verge of erupting like a volcano, but Mendez showed no sign of backing down.

"You've taken me and the boys through a lot of dramas, I'll give you that," the lieutenant explained in a reasoned manner, "but this is not on at all. You're sacrificing our boys for some pathetic little excuse to have a little fun."

Kincade's mouth twitched again. "Oh really? And if you were in my shoes, what would you do, mister 'I have an answer for everything'?"

"I'm not in your shoes Kincade," replied Mendez, "so we all have to rely on you to keep the Scorpions safe, to ensure they live on after this whole mess blows over," he continued, before taking a breath. "But right now, I'm starting to think you don't have everyone's best interests in mind."

"Oh yeah?" asked Kincade, as he suddenly kicked a discarded tyre rim away from him, causing a few of the assembled partygoers to cry out in shock. The music cut out abruptly.

"Yeah," replied Mendez, standing his ground. "We keep going at this rate, and there won't be a gang left to take over after the end...and what if it doesn't blow over? We should worry about getting the hell out of here while we still have our arms in our sockets!"

"I'm the boss here!" half-screamed Kincade suddenly, eyes almost bulging out of his sockets. "_I _decide what we do, not you Mendez! Isn't that right?"

That last statement was directed at everyone else within the general vicinity, but by then an awkward silence had descended in the lot, many of the Scorpion soldiers looking back and forth between one another, fear and confusion etched upon their faces. Kincade's short fuse was a well-known fact among their ranks, but right now it looked as though the brutish gang boss had gone well off the deep end, shouting and screaming like that. Maybe he had.

"Doesn't look like you've got much support after all, boss," proclaimed Mendez with a shake of the head, before he spoke up, raising his voice to be heard. "Any of you who still want to live, then you can come with me right now, and maybe we can get somewhere safe before the zombies find us," he stated, and soon enough a handful of orange-clad young men (and their girlfriends), began to move towards the Lieutenant, standing next to him.

"Wait a damn minute!" yelled Kincade as he glared towards them hatefully. "I'm the boss! You don't do a damn thing without my say-so!"

"Look around Kincade!" retorted Mendez, his patience beginning to run thin. "The boys are terrified! They're terrified of what's out there, terrified of what could happen to them, terrified of zombies bursting down the doors and chewing on their guts! And right now, I guess they're terrified of the way you're acting!"

As if to underline his point, everyone there suddenly heard a chorus of moaning from somewhere nearby, prompting them all to look around in surprise and fear, trying to discern where the source of the noise was coming from. A few of them even made a move towards the main gates, actually opening them and stepping out onto the open street, not even waiting for their fellows. Only Kincade remained oblivious, his rage blinding him to everything save for Hector Mendez and his semi-arrogant expression.

"So they should be!" the big man growled, waving his Desert Eagle around some more, as though he had taken complete leave of his senses. "You want to just walk out like a coward, fine- I'll just shoot each of you in the back!" he then added, hefting his weapon towards Mendez and the others.

The lieutenant just scoffed. "You kill us all, and soon enough there _won't _be a gang left anymore. And you seem to be forgetting that you're nothing without the boys to back you up."

"Shut the hell up!" screamed Kincade, causing a few more of his boys to back away fearfully. "I'm twice the man any of you will ever be! I lead the Scorpions to the top! You should all be grateful to me for that!"

As if on cue, there was a scream from close by, underpinned by a shotgun blast, and everyone's necks whipped around to try and find the source of the scream, somewhere outside the compound, at the very least. Even Mendez looked somewhat worried, even as the scream and gunshot faded away and the constant groans of the undead returned. He quickly turned back towards Kincade, urgency in his voice as he spoke again.

"For God's sake Jerome, don't be a fool!" he pleaded. "There's still a good chance that we can get out of here alive"-

BLAM!

The thunderous retort of a Desert Eagle cut him off, and Mendez staggered back, hands grabbing at the wound in his gut, and the massive blossom of blood that was rapidly spreading across his shirt. He looked up at Kincade, eyes set to burst from his sockets, but Kincade's face remained set: grinning manically, almost.

"No!" he screamed, even as even more of his boys backed away in blatant terror, many of them rushing for the exit doors. "I'm the boss here! Me! _I _decide where we go and what we do! I'm the fucking Scorpions! The rest of you are just some luckless chumps who rode with me to the top! Who cares if you all get killed! I can simply start again with some more chumps!"

And then things truly went to hell.

Just as Mendez touched the ground fully, the doors slammed open and a wave of undead poured through, scattering the remainder of the Scorpions like bowling pins. Those that tried to slip past the creatures to safety were quickly grabbed and pulled into the seething mass, ripped apart and consumed as they screamed. Those lucky enough to be far enough away from the initial rush quickly pulled their weapons out and opened fire. The rest of them, too doped out of their minds, just stood on the spot or lay on the ground, unable to comprehend what had just happened.

"Shit! No!" screamed Kincade as he hefted his Desert Eagle and opened fire, tearing through a few of the approaching zombies, blowing bloody holes through them.

Lying on the tarmac, Mendez was only barely aware of the cacophony of sounds that surrounded him, gunfire jarring with the screams of the dead and dying, and of the countless moans of the zombies swarming at them, wanting nothing more but to eat them alive. He rolled onto his side, the motion causing the agony in his gut to explode once more, and even more of his blood poured out onto the ground. It shocked him, how much was contained within his body.

Someone slumped to their knees just in front of him, and he glanced up with what little strength he had left, to see the outline of a rather scrawny figure crouched over him. After a few more seconds he realised that it was Leroy Carlson, a miserable wretch if there ever was one, a man more interested in indulging himself with whatever drugs he could score. Except now he was no different from the inhuman monsters swarming the parking lot, his eyes glossed over, the side of his neck ripped clean out, blood dribbling onto Mendez's shoes and lower pants legs as he came closer.

"No..." gasped Mendez as he tried to pull himself backwards. "Get away..." But it was to no avail, and soon enough Leroy had pulled himself on top of Mendez, pinning the Lieutenant down with his body weight and promptly sinking his teeth into the other man's neck. Mendez didn't even have the strength to cry out as he felt the last of his life blood leave him, and the screams of his dying comrades surrounded him, mingled in with bursts of frantic gunfire.

* * *

Warden James Salt, Jessop, and Barges stood around a wooden fold-out table, the blueprints for the prison laid out in front of them. On the opposite side of the table stood Frederick Doyle and 'Goose', a tall African-American referred to as the 'Monster of Raccoon' by the other inmates due to his huge stature and considerable strength. He remained totally silent for the time being, as Doyle did all the talking.

"OK, so let's go over the plan one more time," stated Jessop, and everyone else just nodded briefly, eager to get this over with. Salt pointed onto the blueprints at the front yard and gates.

"Allright then, when the gates fail those crazy bastards will come streaming in, and we'll have the fight of the century on our hands," the warden explained. "But we already have some men behind the barriers there, should be able to hold them off"-

"Depending on how many there are," interrupted Doyle suddenly. "Like you said warden, more and more of them keep coming all the time."

"Well I can't control that, Doyle," replied Salt in a sharp manner, before turning back towards the blueprints. "Anyway, as I was saying...we should be able to hold them off for a while at least, but when the time comes, we'll fall back into the corridors," he continued, pointing a finger towards the long corridor that connected most of the rooms on the first floor. "Funnel them into a narrow space, cut them down where they stand."

"Sounds good, but that also means we're funnelled into a narrow space," reasoned Doyle. "If they get through our defences then we'll get wiped out in the blink of an eye."

"True," nodded Jessop, "which is why we put our back-up plan into effect if that happens"- he continued, pointing a finger towards the loading bay pictured on the blueprints, the same place where new prisoners were taken in by bus, and where the huge armoured vehicles were serviced too.

"-where we take one of the buses out through the forest road that leads down the mountain," the CO continued. "It'll be very rough going...but at least it's safer than the front entrance."

"Hold on," said Doyle suddenly, his mind working, "if that's the case then what's stopping them following us outside and wiping us out?" It was a question that went unanswered for some time, until the warden cleared the air.

"Then some of us will need to stay behind and act as a rearguard," he stated flatly, to heavy silence from the others. Though Jessop looked somewhat unnerved by the mere suggestion, Doyle and Goose didn't even bat an eyelid. Considering the world they inhabited was unforgiving and brutal, the warden wasn't surprised at their somewhat blank reaction.

"Any questions?" he asked instead, and although Jessop looked as though he would take the bait initially, he remained silent.

"No? Then let's do this."

A short while later, several inmates in orange jumpsuits alongside a handful of CO's in full body armour, took up positions behind a variety of ramshackle barriers built from all kinds of wooden furniture, desks, and everything else that wasn't nailed down within the prison. In front of them, the massive gates creaked and groaned as they began to bend inwards now, straining under the force of nearly two hundred bodies pushing against it from the outside.

A variety of weapons, including M14 rifles, Benelli M4 shotguns and various types of handguns aimed towards the doors, all of them rounded up from the prison armoury, CO personal lockers, and anywhere else that they could think of. Every little would help in the upcoming onslaught. Warden Salt took up a position near to the front, priming his shotgun as he aimed down the sights at the very middle of the gates. They groaned again, though he remained resolute.

"Come on boys, let's not let these screws show us up!" cried Doyle at his fellow inmates, giving them his own slant on some words of inspiration. Nearest to him was Goose, his M14 looking tiny in his muscular arms, while at least nine more inmates occupied the yard, mingling in with the black-clad CO's. A somewhat motley crew to say the least, but right now they would take anything they could take.

"So, any last words, Mr Warden?" asked one of the other inmates, a rather thin, gaunt-looking Caucasian man by the name of Harker, a former drug addict with a history of severe violence towards women. He added a brief cackle, even as Doyle added to the sarcasm on show.

"Yes James, any words of support for our humble troops?" he asked, though Salt showed no sign of rising to the bait. Instead the Gulf veteran was silent as he took it as a direct challenge, thinking back to the words he would offer his own platoon before they would be deployed into battle, and he soon recalled one particular statement to mind.

"Do not pray for easy lives, my friends," he said instead, his voice carrying even over the chorus of pained moans, "pray to be stronger men instead." The statement seemed to have the desired effect, as Doyle and Harker's sarcastic grins faded away, and instead they focused more intently on the main gates.

Across the way, CO Jeremy Hicks adjusted the visor on his riot helmet and primed his Benelli to fire, pumping the charging handle forwards and back again, the _cha-chack _sound reverberating through his ears. Behind him, Morales readied his own shotgun, chewing on some gum for a few seconds before spitting it out.

_Great, _though Hicks to himself...first month on the job and he ends up about to plunge into battle against a massive crowd of...whatever those things were meant to be inside. A word sprang to mind an awful lot, but he dare not speak it for fear of being labelled insane or hysterical- or perhaps both.

The gates creaked open, the door bar creaking loudly once more, and then there was a horrendous sound of breaking steel as it snapped in two, finally failing in the face of almost two hundred bodies pushing against it. The huge gates swung open, and the crowd poured in, like a dam rupturing open.

Several of the prison's defenders hesitated.

This close, they could see the whites of their enemies' eyes: literally. Instead of seeing a gallery of blue, green or brown looking back, all that they could see were countless pairs of dull, white marbles, set into skulls covered in rotted, peeling flesh. They were all dressed differently, men and women of all ages and profiles, with even several teenagers and younger children mingling among their ranks. Most of them looked as though they shouldn't have still been standing; their clothes smeared in fresh gore, some of them missing limbs or even dragging themselves forward, belly-first, across the ground as many more marched above them.

Doyle found himself staring at a middle-aged obese man with a bulbous, whale-like gut, his intestines spooling freely from the ugly gash in his belly, but he acted as though he were completely unaffected by it. The inmate felt his stomach do a double somersault, even as the fat man reached a bony hand out towards him, an empty groan emanating from his mouth.

The others opened fire.

Warden Salt's first round of buckshot ripped the heads off of five figures, and they all fell to the ground, blood and liquefied brain matter spraying onto everything in range. He pumped the charging handle and fired again; sending more bodies falling, but the remainder of the crowd continued their implacable march.

Gunfire ripped into their bodies, but they only fell after an inordinate amount of damage, sometimes to the extent where their torsos had been reduced to strips of bloody flesh and broken sinews, barely able to stand anymore. Those that received shots to the head were felled instantly, and the warden had ensured that every one of them got the message to go for the headshot wherever possible, to avoid wasting too much ammo unnecessarily. They each only had a finite amount, after all.

The heavy retorts of the shotguns mingled in with the high-powered cracks of the M14 rifles being fired, and even though the models used by the inmates and the CO's were almost antiques, collector items, they still had considerable power, the .303 rounds punching straight through bone, muscle and sinew, leaving gaping holes in the bodies of the crazy people as they were hit, and soon enough a literal carpet of bodies was beginning to form in the prison's yard, the smell of blood, decay and gunpowder forming an acrid stench in the air.

"Bring it!" yelled Plainview angrily as he unloaded his rifle into the decaying horde before him, dropping several of them before he turned away, ejecting the empty magazine and slamming a fresh one home, pulling the bolt back before he was right back into the fight, sending hot lead screaming towards these bastards who had kept them stuck like sardines in a tin for the last day now. And he was tearing into them now. It was...a release, he reckoned, a chance to finally show them how much he hated them for keeping them all trapped within those four walls of the prison.

Harker cackled insanely as he unloaded his own shotgun towards the crowd of rotting 'Crazies', as a few of the CO's had referred to them, splattering their blood and severed body parts everywhere, sometimes even onto himself as a few lone Crazies got too close for comfort. One of them, a slim woman with long blonde hair and missing one side of her face, made a dash that was halfway between a jog and a stumble towards him, and he quickly turned his shotgun around and whacked her full force with the butt of the weapon, sending her head whipping back and snapping her neck. The addict then giggled to himself as he jammed some fresh shells into the weapon.

Nearby, Doyle's shotgun had been drained of shells and he ripped the .357 revolver he had taken from the prison armoury when they had armed themselves a short while ago. He aimed into the blood-soaked figures coming at him and he opened fire, sending them crashing backwards from the sheer kinetic energy of the bullets, blowing immense holes through them and tearing off limbs in a spray of blood. Some of it splashed onto his face, but he had no chance to wipe it off as he fired his last round into the face of a bearded man wearing a grey windbreaker jacket, obliterating his features and knocking him backwards into a few others, bowling them all over. Doyle then gasped in relief as he snapped the revolver open and began to reload it, inserting each round into the cylinder.

"Stand fast!" yelled warden Salt as he fired his last shotgun shell into the throng of bodies, dropping a few more. Doyle glanced over at the resolute face of the prison warden, and then looked back over at Goose, shaking his head.

"I think he's enjoying this a little too much," he muttered, though Goose didn't offer any kind of response as he aimed down his rifle's sights and opened fire again.

The crowd kept coming, crashing into the barriers like the ocean tide, illuminated by the orange flashes of gunfire.

From a solitary second floor window, Jessop watched the horde come pouring through the opened gates, like the tide crashing against the beach, relentless in their attack. From next to him, he could sense Barges was on the verge of flipping out and losing it big style, the slightly overweight man's eyes darting back and forth across the yard below, sweat forming on his brow.

"Holy shit...holy shit man! We're so dead!"

"Will you shut up goddamn it!" scowled a nearby inmate, clutching a shotgun in his hands. He had a point, since Barges had not shut up since the moment the gates had been breached, but his pessimistic ranting was really putting a dent into their morale, and things were bad enough as they were without him dragging them all down.

"Barges, put a damn lid on it," ordered Jessop, raising his hand up. "We need to keep our heads on, no matter how bad things look." And with that, he turned to look out the window once more, at the crowd that continued to pour into the prison yard, despite the fact nearly fifty corpses lined the concrete, their blood spilling out like a river delta, severed body parts and chunks of meat sprayed onto the bodies of the defenders. They were so caked in blood now it was almost impossible to tell who was who anymore.

The gunfire could be heard as far away as the city itself.

* * *

The Scorpions couldn't hear it though, too busy were they fighting for their lives. Those who still carried their weapons unloaded them frantically into the seething mass of undead bodies that poured into the parking lot that had served as their base for the last few years now. And for most of the remaining gang members, it would serve as their final resting place.

Already several of them had been dragged down with tooth and nail, up to a dozen bodies at a time gathering around each fallen corpse, biting and tearing at the soft flesh, ripping open the stomach cavities and peeling out lengths of intestine and other internal organs, their hands and mouths slick with fresh gore, as they chewed contently. The other zombies, meanwhile, continued to advance on the other humans who remained, their moans becoming a haunting choir.

"Shit! Kill them!" barked Kincade as he unloaded two more rounds from his Desert Eagle, before ejecting the spent clip and grabbing a fresh one from his waistband, jamming it into the massive handgun. Around him, two of his soldiers armed with Tec-9 machine pistols unloaded into the advancing crowd, forcing them back somewhat but killing only a few with lucky headshots. To their extreme left, the Scorpion who was working the music desk was tackled across his table, as a burly blonde-haired man ripped out his throat in sickening gouts of crimson.

"There's too many!" yelled another soldier as he unloaded his .38 revolver, the last round burrowing through the right eye socket of a thin-looking woman with long auburn hair, dropping her to the ground. He then snapped open the cylinder and hurriedly loaded some fresh bullets.

"Fucking pussies!" screamed Kincade as he lowered his weapon and unloaded a single bullet into the back of the man with the revolver, blowing him off his feet: luckily, he was dead before the zombies began feeding on him. "You're a fucking disgrace to the Scorpions!"

His rant went unheard though as several more of the surviving soldiers continued to back away fearfully, towards the warehouse entrance that would lead into a storage space that the gang used to keep all of their 'merchandise' from unwary eyes, and hopefully they would be able to hold the zombies off from inside, funnelling them through a narrow space; as otherwise it was a dead end in every sense of the word. Though the door was normally locked with a heavy padlock, a quick shot from one of the larger Scorpions quickly took care of that.

Kincade glanced behind him in time to see his soldiers disappearing inside the warehouse, leaving him behind with the monsters that were tearing his base up. His eyes went wide from surprise, and then almost as quickly a scowl of anger returned.

"You bastards!" he yelled, opening fire towards them, his shots pinging off of the walls flanking the open doorway, thankfully missing the Scorpions, but causing a few of them to duck suddenly in shock. A couple of them turned towards his direction, fearful, but then they ducked inside the warehouse quickly, knowing that they didn't have much time to waste. Kincade opened his mouth to say something else, but when a bony hand grabbed at his leg and tried to pull him off his feet, he remembered he had more pressing concerns.

"Get your stinking hands off me!" he roared, planting a sizeable boot into the centre of a man's chest, pushing him backwards into the others, sending them stumbling blindly, giving him space to make a dash for the open door, and towards some form of salvation. Thankfully, the bastards didn't lock the door behind them, and he was easily able to gain entry. Once inside, he got a good view of the various half-built cars, piles of spare parts and crates filled with all kinds of random junk and other 'product' that the Scorpions dealt with.

"You goddamn pussies!" screamed Kincade angrily as he stormed over towards his men, many of whom ignored him completely as they cracked open a few of the crates and dug out a number of illegally imported weapons, including AK-47's with the stocks removed, and a number of Mac-11 submachine guns, passing it out between one another. "You dare to run out on your own damn boss?"

The Scorpions just continued to ignore him completely as the door into the warehouse crashed open and the zombies poured through, several of them being their former brothers, now forever changed into hollow shells of their former selves. There was nothing of their human side left in those white eyes, and that was perhaps the most unnerving aspect of them.

"Shit! These rotting gut bags think they can take over _my _turf, do they?" asked Kincade rhetorically as he snatched a Mac 11 from one of his subordinates and shoved him backwards, hard enough to knock the man on his ass. He then turned immediately and opened fire, tearing right through the first few zombies and splattering bloody chunks onto everything. A few seconds later, the other Scorpions joined in, and the air became thick with gunfire and smoke once more.

"Kill them all!" roared Kincade, though they hardly needed telling twice.

* * *

BANG! BANG! BANG!

James Salt executed the last few crazies directly outside, before he slammed the doors shut and motioned for Plainview and Hicks to push a heavy-looking desk in front of the doors leading outside, and then pushing a steel bar through the handles, to hopefully stop the invaders from gaining easy access. Salt quietly reloaded his Eagle 6.0, taking stock of the bloodstained figures standing around him.

Aside from Plainview and Hicks, the CO Morales was also still alive, his M14 lying at his feet as he stared at his bloodstained gloves and arms, eyes wide in barely aware surprise. Standing near to him were Doyle and Goose, along with Harker and a few more inmates, though the others who had followed them outside to aid in the defence...were still outside, most of them in bloody pieces, and as for the others that had gotten back on their feet and were walking about again-

The warden shook his head frantically. No point in thinking about the losses sustained. There were still plenty of people to protect, and he forced himself to stand, somewhat wearily.

"Holy shit..." whispered Doyle to himself, the bravado he had shown upon his release now completely gone. "Holy shit..."

"Is everyone OK?" asked Salt as he reached for his shotgun and loaded some fresh shells into the breach.

"We're fine," stated Plainview, as he looked around at the others, before wiping some blood off of the front of his armoured vest. "Geez, those bastards don't know how to clean up properly do they?" he then added, in his trademark bluntness.

"Sir! Sir!" yelled the familiar voice of Jessop as he came racing down the corridor suddenly, eyes wide in fear, his face pale, probably from when he saw that they were all smeared in stinking gore. The CO's looked a mess, their once immaculate matt black Kevlar armour soaked through with blood and gore, and their bare skin smeared a filthy red colour. The inmates, in their once bright orange jumpsuits, didn't look much better, and there was a hollow look on their faces.

"We're fine," replied Salt promptly, "but there's more and more of those stinking bastards pouring in. We couldn't hold the yard forever." As if to punctuate his point, there was a sudden increase in the volume of moans from just outside the doors, and then they suddenly buckled from the weight of several bodies pushing against it, causing the CO's and inmates to jump suddenly. A couple seconds later, the glass porthole on one door shattered inwards, one stray shard slicing into Hicks' cheek, though the others were more focused on the female pale face that appeared in the gap, trying to grope at them with a blood-stained arm.

"Fuck! Fuck it all!" growled Warden Salt, before he jammed the barrel of his handgun through the gap and fired three times, felling the woman. He drew away in disgust, just as the doors shook again, almost buckling inwards. Everyone backed away instinctively, some of them levelling their weapons.

"Damn! Jessop, we're running out of time!" yelled Salt as he holstered his handgun and readied his shotgun instead, before turning back to his trusted second. "Take the others and get them out of here, now!"

"But Warden, what about you?" called Jessop, eyes wide, even as the doors rocked again, and another bloody figure could be seen through a crack that was formed in the heavy doors. His mouth twisted into a sneer, Harker shoved the barrel of his shotgun through the gap and fired.

BOOM!

An obscene amount of gore splattered back onto the inmate, who just cackled in an almost unhinged manner, before wiping his face clear. "Damn! Most fun I've had in a long time!"

"Well someone has to cover your escape, right?" shot back Salt angrily, as the doors rattled once more, this time the steel bar beginning to actually bend inwards. The strength exhibited by these 'crazies' was unlike anything he had ever seen before. Screw the thought they'd been driven insane by something or other- these people weren't human anymore.

"Look, just get the hell out!" yelled Plainview, lifting up his visor and then finally ripping the helmet free, tossing it into the far corner of the reception, before pulling back the bolt on his M14. "We don't make a stand, you won't get anywhere, and then this'll all be for nothing!"

"But"-

"Just go!" yelled Warden Salt as the doors shook yet again, this time being forced apart far enough for several pairs of pale hands to extend out through the gap created, grabbing at anything that was within range, causing the defenders to back off a little more. Jessop looked back and forth between the others, and when he saw that they were set on what they were doing, he finally nodded.

"Sure," he said. "Warden, it was an honour"-

"GO!"

Peyton Jessop turned on his heel and raced away down the corridor, and then back up the stairs. The others turned away, knowing somehow inside that this was the last time they would ever see that man again. But at the same time they couldn't let that worry them, and focus on the most immediate threat before them.

The doors groaned as they were forced open some more, this time the desk being shifted a few inches, and the upper body of a man wearing a blood-splattered business suit tried to push himself through the gap, his mouth a gaping void as he moaned in an empty manner. Plainview wordlessly shoved the barrel of his rifle into the man's mouth and fired, spraying himself and the floor in chunks of steaming meat and bone.

"They don't stop...do they?" asked Hicks, sounding very distant as he checked that his shotgun was ready to fire. He backed away slowly as the others followed suit, ready for another fight. Jessop would have to work fast if he was going to lead the others to safety, before the baying mob of crazed people overran them.

_Crash!_

With one last effort, the doors finally gave way, the steel bar being pushed aside through sheer brute force, the desk being shoved away and into the wall opposite, almost snapping in half from the sheer power displayed. And then the crazies came storming in, stumbling and tripping over one another in their sheer blood lust to get at the armed people before them. Any other time the sight would be almost comical, but considering the fact these people wanted to tear them limb from limb, it wasn't so hilarious right then and there.

Salt wasted no time in pulling the trigger, tearing right through the first line of crazies and dropping them to the ground like sacks of potatoes, and splashing a considerable amount of blood across the walls and ceiling too, before the others followed up, cutting through countless bodies in a short period of time and leaving a nice pile of corpses before them, yet still more and more of them came.

"Just give it up already!" screamed Hicks as he exhausted his shotgun and began rifling through his pockets for more shells to use. Next to him, Harker just giggled in an slightly unhinged tone as he gunned down a few more crazies. He looked close to going over the edge, and frankly who could blame him?

"Keep it together!" yelled the Warden. "I'll be damned if those bastards are going are going to destroy _my _prison while I'm still on my feet!" He then punctuated his point by aiming his shotgun towards the face of a shirtless obese man, and fired, making it erupt like a fountain of blood and liquefied brain matter.

Even as Jessop and Barges lead the others down the upstairs corridor and towards expected freedom, the storm of gunfire below them pervaded their hearing and all their other senses. Jessop couldn't help but detect the cold sweat that trickled down the back of his neck as they hurried on as fast as they could. Aside from the two CO's, a pair of inmates known as Lloyd and Adams, followed after them, both armed with M4 shotguns. Lloyd was a rather lanky Caucasian man with a terrified glint in his eyes, while Adams was a slightly more built Caucasian man, who had a reputation for being somewhat unpredictable: and also a member of the Aryan Brotherhood, if the swastika tattoos on his neck and upper arms were anything to go by. Behind them came nearly 20 more non-coms, from the other inmates through to prison kitchen staff, cleaners, admin staff, and anyone else unlucky enough to turn in that day.

"Come on, we have to hurry!" urged Barges as they descended the stairs that lead to the ground floor, two at a time. Soon enough they had touched down, and now the gunfire was even more prevalent, from the reception at the far side of the corridor. In between them were several ramshackle barriers forged from all kinds of office furniture, piles of wooden detritus, and anything else that wasn't bolted down.

"This way!" added Jessop, already leading the way towards a steel-rimmed door just behind and underneath the stairwell, pulling out a large ring of keys from his pocket as he did so. He then promptly began rifling through the dozens of keys, some small and shining, others larger and beginning to rust.

"Come on man!" urged Barges as he looked back over his shoulder down the passage. The gunfire dropped in volume somewhat, and then the spine-chilling moans could be heard once again. His blood ran cold.

"I'm trying, I'm trying, dammit!" seethed Jessop as he finally found the key he was looking for, a large traditional-looking item flaky with rust, and then it slipped from his sweaty fingers suddenly, and he cursed his own ineptitude under pressure. "Fuck!"

"Anytime there, buddy," said one of the inmates deadpan, even as he could see the back of one of his companions, firing desperately at an enemy they couldn't see just yet. A few moments later, Jessop finally clenched the key in his fingers once more, and slotted it into the lock, turning it and undoing the latch with a loud metallic sound.

"We're through!"

"Go, go, go!" urged Barges, throwing the door open, and ushering the others through, making sure he kept at least one eye on the corridor in front of them, in case anything were to appear suddenly. Thankfully, the others were forming an effective enough defence to prevent the crazies from getting too far, and they were easily able to get into the back lot. He hated to think just how many of those people had broken in now...and if the warden and the others were as good as dead.

_No! Focus on getting these people out safe!_

The back lot was a fairly spacious area, paved with concrete and fenced off with steel mesh fencing that overlooked the Arklay Forest, a lone forest road leading into the thick trees directly in front of them. To their far right was another gate in the tall perimeter fence, complete with several more of those 'Crazies' tugging at the steel, unable to get through. Close to them was a the huge black prison bus, complete with reinforced steel body frame and a cage dividing the driver's compartment from where the prisoners would sit. And it was currently the only means of their escape from this place too, as Jessop hurried over to get the doors opened.

"Come on, let's blow this Popsicle stand," muttered Hector as he clutched his shotgun tightly, glancing back and forth nervously.

"I'd expected such yellow belly talk from a wretch like you," growled Adams, fixing him with a dangerous stare. The Hispanic looked back, shocked at being spoken to in such a way at a time like this.

"Hey, stop that now," said Barges firmly as he placed himself in between the two inmates, putting a hand against Adams' chest to keep the racist in check, who just regarded the slightly smaller man with an intense stare. "We are all in the same boat here, so either you learn to get along with your fellow an, or I'll put you back in your damn cage."

"OK, we're good to go!" cried Jessop as he finally threw the bus doors open, interrupting Adams' inevitable comeback, most likely a biting remark about something he would do to Barges' mother.

"OK then, get on, all of you!" ordered Barges, waving his arm and indicating for the non-coms and other unarmed inmates to begin boarding the bus, which they did after a brief scuffle, though soon enough a mass of bodies had grown at the open doors, preventing everyone from getting on. Frankly, Barnes didn't blame them, considering their current situation, but rushing about like terrified school kids wasn't helping anyone right now.

"Single file! Single File!" yelled Jessop frantically as he tried to keep some semblance of order within the lot, but that wasn't happening, as terrified people pushed against him, some of the inmates amongst them. Funny that these men were convicted killers, rapists and worse- and now they were more like deer trying to scatter to avoid a hunter's rifle. The guard moved forward, but they pushed back, nearly knocking him onto his back. From behind the scene, Barges sighed and moved forward to try and help out-

-and then a high-pitched shriek suddenly caused him to nearly jump out his skin, aiming his shotgun this way and that to try and discern whatever had made the sound, along with Adams and Hector. The crowd of non-coms trying to get onto the bus paid no attention to it though, so focused were they on trying to get onto their method of escape.

"The hell was that?" cried Hector, fear evident in his voice.

"Sounds like some bitch from the mouth of hell," drawled Adams, sounding unnaturally calm. He suddenly saw a bright red blur move out the corner of his eye, moving across the prison wall with unnatural speed, and he instinctively fired, his buckshot chipping away at the brickwork. Barges said nothing about it, as he was too fixated on the sinewy shape clinging to the wall just above the door they had exited out of.

"What in God's name...?"

Though it had a roughly human shape, it was entirely skinless, its whole body just one large mass of sleek, sinewy muscle, its hands and feet replaced with bony claws a few inches long, an exposed brain, and most importantly, a long snake-like tongue that waved to and fro in front of its face, trailing sickly drool behind it. For a few moments, the defenders just stood rooted to the spot, staring at it, even as it let out a long, ragged gasp.

"-looks like a bitch out the mouth of hell too," deadpanned Adams.

Then in an instant, the monster's tongue retracted into its fanged maw, and then shot out like a whip, covering 15 feet in a split-second, and it was only Hector's last-chance duck that saved his life, the tongue instead cutting through the air just where his left eye had been a few seconds before. The Hispanic man just stared wide-eyed at the creature as its 'weapon' retracted back inside its mouth.

"Shoot it!" yelled Barges, pulling the trigger on his shotgun.

The buckshot ripped across the creature's back, and it shrieked in pain, though it didn't drop dead. Clearly it was made of sterner stuff than its skinless hide suggested, and a second later it launched itself from the wall, landing on the concrete ground and then leaping towards the three men, raising one arm to strike. They all scattered, and it brushed in between them, landing perched on its claws a few feet away.

Only then did the people trying to get on the bus notice it, and began to scream in a more hysterical tone.

"What the fuck is that?" cried Jessop, noticing the creature too. He tried to grab for his M14, but it had been knocked from his hands in the recent scuffle.

"Who knows?" shouted Barges back in a panicked tone, unloading a second load of buckshot into the creature's side, knocking it over onto its front and giving Adams an opening to fire another point-blank shot, taking its head off in a puff of red mist. Only then did the creature's body flop to the ground lifelessly, a large pool of blood forming beneath its form.

"God knows," shouted Barges back in response over the panicked yells and shouts, "but those crazies inside are the least of our worries."

As if to punctuate his point, more shrieks similar to what the skinless monster had emitted, and then everyone's eyes turned here and there, desperate to locate their aggressors. A few seconds later, a skinless form landed on its hands and feet just a few yards in front of Hector, who bought his shotgun around to bear as it hissed at him, a few moments before an identical creature clawed its way over the roof and down towards them. It shrieked at them, just in time for a third one to land on the roof of the prison bus, making a considerable racket and nearly giving Jessop a heart attack.

The CO cried in horror and quickly swung his rifle skywards, firing off 3 shots that tore straight through the thin steel roof and knocked the crouched creature off of the bus, letting out a startled screech as it hit the ground and rolled over onto its front, scrabbling for purchase on the concrete. The crowd let out another scream as the first new arrival suddenly launched itself at Hector and Adams, the taller man shoving the Hispanic aside and then falling to the ground as it sailed overhead, its viscously sharp talons slicing through thin air.

BOOM!

Adams gave it a point-blank shot to the stomach as it sailed over, and then it flipped over, crashing to the ground and thrashing about on its back, as Barges fired towards the one clinging to the wall, the edge of the buckshot grazing one of its shoulders and drawing blood, but not enough to kill it.

In response, the maddened creature threw itself towards the survivors, landing perched on its hands and feet several feet away from the crowd still desperate to get aboard the bus, and then a split-second later it launched its tongue towards them. To Jessop, it almost resembled a chameleon in the wild catching its dinner, though he had a pretty good idea that this...this thing's tongue would do a lot more than just stick to them.

"Watch out!" he yelled, as loud as he could manage, though it was far too late.

The tongue cracked like a whip, slicing into the crowd, and then a few seconds later a few of the survivors collapsed to the ground, blood streaming from fatal wounds; one of the cooks had his throat sliced open cleanly, blood gushing from the wound. The grisly sight caused more screams to erupt from the crowd, and then a couple of seconds later, Jessop was pushing through the throng, rifle lifted up high to prevent it being ripped from his hands, as the others took the opportunity to pile into the bus, desperate to distance themselves from the monstrous creatures attacking them.

Jessop honestly didn't know what to think. Those 'Crazies' that had broken in were one thing, but these things? They defied all logic, more like demons spat out of the mouth of hell itself rather than anything his brain could logically accept. He blocked those dark thoughts out as he raised his rifle and fired, tearing off the head of the grinning demon that had just sliced through the crowd like a hot knife through butter. The body flopped to the ground, crimson pumping from its bare neck stump.

"Shit!" cursed Adams a she swung his shotgun to the side and fired, blowing another one out of the air. Apparently, a few more skinless freaks had crawled out of the proverbial woodwork. Where they had originated from was anyone's guess. Maybe they had just crawled out of hell, as he had originally suggested.

"Where are they coming from?" yelled Hector as he finally managed to grab his own shotgun and fire towards another creature crawling towards him on its belly, low to the ground. The monster flinched as the buckshot ripped through its upper back, and then he quickly finished it with a second shot, tearing its head off.

"Hell if I know!" shot Adams back as a sleek tongue suddenly whipped across the air and sliced through the bare skin on his left forearm. He drew back, gasping in pain and shock, grabbing at where blood dribbled from his wound, dropping his shotgun as he did so. He then looked up to see yet another of those monsters making a jump straight for him, talons ready to plunge into his chest.

BOOM!

The heavy retort of a shotgun was heard and the monster was smacked out of the air sideways, and as it lay flailing on the ground, a second blast ripped its chest open and it lay still. Adams continued to stare dumbly at the corpse for a few more seconds, and then he was finally aware of Hector standing a short distance away, racking his weapon.

"Guess we're even now, huh?" he asked, though Adams only gave him a twisted scowl in response, before stooping down to retrieve his own weapon, as Jessop and Barges took stock of the current situation.

"Holy fuck, what the hell were those things?" asked Jessop as he ran a hand through his hair, staring down at the headless corpse of one of those skinless creatures. Another one lying a few feet away had its tongue hanging out, coiled up like a dying snake.

"Like something out the mouth of hell," muttered Barges, as he took note of the fact everyone was on the bus now, in relative safety (he hoped), but watching fearfully through the caged windows. The bodies of at least three staff members lay dead just outside of the bus and no-one gave them any thought.

"Bastard chameleon people?" suggested Adams flatly, a suggestion that would have made them laugh in any other situation.

"Well whatever they are, we've wasted enough time," replied Jessop, looking around at the crazies still pressed up against the side fence, slowly growing in number. "We can't drag our feet anymore, and we got more than enough things to worry about then where these 'things' came from"-

Barges said nothing as he saw the blur of red out the corner of his eyes, and watched it suddenly draw its head back, ready to let its tongue strike-

"Move!" he yelled, pushing Jessop aside and attempting to raise his shotgun to fire off a shot, but the monster's tongue lashed out far too quickly for him to react too, and a second later it wrapped around the weapon's barrel and yanked it forcefully from his hands, the creature seeming to grin in victory as its tongue withdrew slightly, and then shot out again as Barges tried to draw his Beretta handgun, holstered at his waist.

He had barely raised it to arm height when he suddenly felt his whole body go numb, and a gasp erupt from his lips. His eyes went impossibly wide, and he began to briefly wonder why he felt like this, until his eyes looked back at the skinless freak, and then slowly trailed along the length of its considerable tongue, leading from its drooling maw...to where it had pierced through the centre of his chest like a lance-

-then it ripped its tongue free and he cried out again, blood spurting from his mouth and from the ragged hole in his torso. He sank to his knees, even as he heard Jessop's muffled voice shouting in alarm, and then heard the thunderous retort of a pair of shotguns opening up, tearing the monster's head and upper torso to shreds.

_So this is what death feels like, _he thought to himself, as he began to fall onto his side, as if in slow motion. _It's not that bad really, after the initial pain..._

The last thing he was aware of was someone running up to crouch beside him just before the darkness came crashing down on him and blocked everything else out.

* * *

He was too late. Barges was already gone by the time he stooped beside his fallen body, blood pouring from the massive wound in the centre of his chest, where his lungs should have been. He stared down at the body for a few more seconds, before ne slammed his fist against the concrete.

"Damn it!" he yelled, even as the others stood around the scene, heads lowered. Everyone else was safely aboard the bus now, letting out the odd scream and shout to reassure him that they were still there, waiting patiently to get the hell out of dodge. The man ran a hand through his hair and rose up again, taking a moment to collect Barges' shotgun.

"Hector, check his pockets," he then ordered, and the Hispanic man wasted no time in stooping down and rooting through the CO's pockets, turning up the spare shotgun shells and dropping them into the already bulging pockets of his own pants, along with a few spare Beretta magazines. Adams just stood off to the side, face set.

"Does anyone know how to drive a bus?" asked Jessop suddenly, as he carefully prised Barges' sidearm from his limp fingers and tucked it into his waistband.

"What?" asked Hector, sounding miles away.

"I said does anyone know how to drive a damned bus?" repeated Jessop, in a much louder and angrier tone, which almost caused Hector to jump out of his skin.

"Harrison knows," said Adams calmly, indicating one of the inmates watching from the bus. "He's in here because he hijacked another prison bus to try and save his buddies, but I guess you could say he didn't get through that state line."

"Allright then," replied Jessop, ignoring Adams' little joke completely, beginning to head over towards the bus, eager to get out of here, not wanting to look at Barges corpse anymore.

He was Jessop's responsibility. They were all his responsibility. He was James Salt's number 2 man in the prison, and he had entrusted the safety of all these people to his supposedly capable hands. And now one of his friends was dead, speared through the heart by whatever hell-spawned beast those creatures were meant to be. He had never seen anything like it, but since yesterday it felt as though everything was some surreal nightmare, and he would wake up at any moment.

But the blood on his hands was all too real.

_Crash!_

He spun around as he heard the sound of rusty chains snapping and he saw the side gates swing open, allowing the crazies pressing against it from outside to begin stumbling through, moaning in that empty manner as they approached.

"Go!" yelled Jessop, making a sprint up and onto the bus, closely followed by Hector and Adams, the latter taking a moment to glare towards the blood-smeared people for a while, before he chased after the others. Once they were on board, Jessop threw the doors shut quickly and promptly dragged Harrison into the vacant driver's seat.

"Get us out of here, now!" he ordered, as he carefully watched the people approach through the barred windows. A few of them began to gravitate towards Barges' body.

"Allright, allright!" cried Harrison, a rather weedy-looking man wearing black-rimmed spectacles and with very short black hair. He twisted the key in the ignition, but each time the engine only choked and spluttered, failing to start fully each time.

"Come on, what's the hold-up?" asked a panicked voice from the far end of the bus.

"I'm trying, I'm trying!" wailed Harrison as he twisted the key once more.

Anxious, Jessop turned to look outside once more. Those people were only a few feet away from the bus' windows now, even though the steel bars would stop them from breaking inside easily. Looking past them, he saw a pair of them crouch over Barges' body, and then begin to-

-he looked away from the scene, not wanting to see what these people did to those that had fallen.

Finally, the bus' engine shuddered into life.

"I got it!" cried Harrison.

"Then go! Go!" urged Hector in a panicked tone, as he saw a face with empty eyeballs appear next to him at the window.

Harrison jerked the gear shaft into reverse, then pushed down on the accelerator and drove the massive vehicle backwards, shunting a crazy man onto his back and then rolling over him, the faint sound of crunching bone being heard. Then he lurched to a halt, nearly throwing Jessop and a few others onto his ass, and then they were all moving forward, the wheels squealing in protest as the bus' massive engine block crashed through the gates, and then they were on the somewhat narrow forest path, plunging through the thick trees as the small crowd followed them in their shambling gait.

* * *

Jerome Kincade slumped up against the wooden crate and let himself slide to the ground slowly, his muscular arms and chest smeared with blood, chunks of flesh, and some pink substance that he guessed was brain matter; the consequence of shooting someone in the head at point-blank range. He clutched his Desert Eagle desperately, loaded with the last available clip that he had on him.

"Pussies...you're all...a bunch of fucking pussies," he growled, referring to the fallen members of his gang.

Even with all of that firepower in the warehouse, it was as much use as a chocolate teapot. There were far too many of those undead bastards pouring into the warehouse for all of them to handle, even with their fearless leader by their side, up until the very end, when the ammo stores ran down and he made a run for it as they were torn apart with bare hands and teeth, most of the blood-splattered crowd pausing to feed upon the fallen rather than pursuing Kincade, who made a run for the door in the corner that would lead into the smaller storage space, and then lead back outside-

-though one of the speedy bastards, apparently sensing his plan, had turned to him instead and lunged for him, missing its grab, even though its sharp nails raked a number of deep red trenches on his bare arm. Though Kincade was easily able to throw the scrawny man off of him, he was in no position to react to the large middle-aged woman who sank her teeth into his other arm, tearing a great chunk of skin and flesh off in an instant. He had killed her outright, unloading two rounds into her throat and face, tearing her head off outright, but the damage had already been done.

Blood continued to seep and bubble from the gaping wound, even as he tied a strip of white cloth, torn off from the shirt of a dead Scorpion around it. He could feel himself feeling a little faint, but there was a pharmacist not too far from their base, and he was sure that he could make it in time, still running off of sheer adrenaline from the battle.

When this was all over, he would rebuild the Scorpions anew: with most of the membership wiped out within the last hour or so, he was likely the only one left, out of the toughest gang in the entire city.

"Not so tough...if you're all dead," he groaned, shaking his head a few times. When he rebuilt the gang, he would make sure that all of the members were tough as nails, hardcore bastards who could withstand anything. No more weak shits in the Scorpions, that would the number one rule on his manifesto. After all, survival of the fittest was all that mattered in this world now.

_Crash!_

The door leading to the outside world came swinging inwards suddenly, jolting him out of his stupor and looking around in time to see even more zombies come staggering inside, several of them being orange-clad former members of the Scorpions; bought back to a second horrific existence as flesh-hungry monsters.

"No! Not now!" yelled Kincade as he struggled to lift his weapon up to fire, as the first zombie came close, moaning in that haunting manner.

BLAM!

His first shot ripped a gaping hole through the very centre of his chest, tearing out the lungs and heart, dropping the zombie to the floor like a dead weight. The bullet continued on its course into the others behind the first one, tearing through at least three more bodies before punching through the brick wall, leaving a small trail of dust. He then readjusted his aim and fired twice more, the second round tearing through the middle of a woman who was beginning to waste away. More steaming chunks of meat splattered onto him as he continued to lay there, and then another male zombie, dressed in orange, came into view. Kincade hesitated.

His lips turned up into a sneer. "Still a nuisance, even in death, eh Mendez?" he asked.

Hector Mendez only moaned in response as he stumbled forward, arms outstretched before him. The massive gunshot wound in his stomach still remained, and now a few loose spools of intestine dangled down, swaying with the former Lieutenant's motions, from where the others had fed on him briefly. There was also the fact the front of his neck and his left shoulder had been eaten away, giving him a very unsettling appearance. His eyes were as devoid of colour and emotion as the others.

"Always so self-righteous," sneered Kincade, aiming his Desert Eagle towards Mendez's head. "And now look at you: just like all the others, just as you should be. But don't worry- if I'm going to die then I'll be sure to kill you first," he then added, straightening his arm as he prepared to pull the trigger and snuff out Mendez's life for the second time that day.

_Click._

Kincade's smirk faded away as soon as he heard the dry click emanate from his weapon. He stared at it, everything else going out of focus as he pulled the trigger again and again, desperate for it to fire just one more time in what little life he had left-

_Click. Click. Click-_

-but still nothing. He had not kept track of how many rounds were left in the magazine, and now he was going to pay for that foolish mistake with his own precious life.

"No...no!" he screamed in disbelief, trying to scramble to his feet, but his cramped legs gave way beneath him and he tumbled back onto his ass, as Mendez drew closer and closer, his moans sounding almost elated at the thought of another fresh meal to satiate his endless hunger (for a while at least).

"Get the fuck away from me!" screamed Kincade, sounding very meek and pathetic now, waving his arm towards the zombies and scuttling backwards. But it was all for naught as Mendez finally lunged in, teeth bared and mouth opened wide as humanly possible, clamping down onto Kincade's fingers.

The gang leader let out a much louder scream now, finally pulling his hand free, but with a tearing of flesh and the sound of his Desert Eagle falling to the dusty floor. He pushed himself against the wall as tightly as he could manage, staring weakly up at Mendez as he lazily chewed on a pair of fleshy objects in his mouth. A pair of human fingers.

Kincade's fingers.

The gang leader stared down at his right hand, at the spot where blood jetted out of the stumps where his ring and pinky fingers once occupied, and suddenly felt himself go faint once more. Then he felt shadows fall over him again, and he looked around frantically, as even more of those undead bastards surrounded him, moving in to finish the job.

But to Kincade's eyes, they were the faces of his former surbordinates, pointing and laughing at the pathetic, blood-stained wretch that had once been their fearless boss, the same man who had told them time and time again that he would not tolerate any weakness or excuse from them: he wanted them to be the best Raccoon City had to offer.

And he was the one responsible for their deaths. And he would be joining them, very shortly, in hell.

"No, no! No!" he screamed frantically, holding his bleeding hand up as a means to ward them off, but it was to no avail, even as they stooped down and began to feed, one of them sinking their teeth into his wrist and tearing his hand off in a great burst of crimson.

Jerome Kincade died screaming on the dusty floor of an anonymous warehouse in Raccoon City that day, eaten alive by the very men he had doomed with his own greed and arrogance.

* * *

BANG! BANG! BANG!

James Salt dropped three more crazies with perfect headshots, before spinning the pistol round his hand and dropping it into its holster like a Wild West gunslinger, before retreating back up the stairs, grabbing for his shotgun again. Judging by the bodies piled up at the bottom of the steps, and all along the corridor, around the bodies of the fallen defenders, this flood had to end sometime.

But no, those bastards just kept coming and coming.

_But I've still got bullets on me- I won't lie down and die just yet!_

They had given the ground floor up now, since several of the inmates had ran out of ammunition and been torn apart before they could run. Morales and Dennis were gone too, having ran dry on ammo and being dragged down like the rest. The ones who remained were rapidly being backed into a corner, like rats in a laboratory cage. The Warden hated to admit it, but it looked as though the prison was a lost cause.

He only had three more people with him: Plainview was down to using his sidearm, his M14 being ripped out his hands when he had ran it dry a few minutes ago, while Goose and Doyle were still in the fight, but while the former remained stoic and silent, Doyle's cocky and confident demeanour had been shattered in the last hour, like someone had taken a sledgehammer to his psyche. He just stared blankly down at the rows of white eyes shuffling up the steps towards them.

"Come on, fall back, fall back!" urged Salt, pulling Doyle back a little, and they began to back pedal away down the corridor, towards the dead end where the Warden's office was located. Plainview remained stood at the top of the stairway, firing off a few more shots to clear the way somewhat, but no matter what he did, there was always another to plug the gaps in the horde.

These were people anymore: that much was certain. They seemed to resemble more the 'zombies' that he saw in countless horror movies when he was a young student at college and university, and also the same creatures that featured in an old video game series his teenage son was always obsessed with. What was it called again? The current chaos prevented him from remembering the name, not like it was important anyway.

"Shit!" cursed the CO as he retreated to join the others, reloading his Beretta as he did so, with his penultimate magazine. Thirty bullets- that's all his life extended to now, in these conditions, the stench of blood, sweat, and rotten flesh choking his nostrils.

"Come on Doyle!" yelled Salt as he overturned a table to act as a barricade, snapping the inmate out of his somewhat dazed state, prompting him to overturn a different desk and rest his shotgun across the top, propping his weapon up at ideal head height.

"Need to get out of here...need to get out of here," he muttered to himself, over and over again.

"There isn't another way out," replied Salt harshly. "That's why we're here, to give the others time to get away. You knew what you were getting yourself into Doyle," he then added, turning to look the inmate in the eye. "I thought you weren't the cowardly type." Doyle turned away, not giving his normal smart-ass answer.

"Here we go!" barked Plainview as the first of the 'zombies' rounded the corner, a middle-aged balding man wearing a dress shirt that was dyed red with blood from the waist up. He shot the man dead where he stood, just as several more rounded the corner, spurred on by the sight of still-living prey.

"Son of a bitch!" growled Goose, perhaps the first thing he had said all night, as he raised his M14 and fired, tearing off a young woman's arm, but she kept coming, despite being spun around a little from the impact. A second shot ripped off the top half of her head and splattered blood and liquefied brain matter up the wall and onto her fellow zombies.

Warden Salt fired his shotgun, ripping through a few more bodies, and then Doyle followed suit, exploding more skulls and spraying gore up the walls. At least they could say that the cleaning bill at the end of this day would be astronomical to say the least.

"There's gotta be another way out of here!" cried Doyle suddenly, sounding almost pathetic, firing off another round of buckshot.

"Unless you fancy jumping out the second floor window in my office, then be my guest!" shouted Salt back, racking a shell into his shotgun. "Of course, you'd break your legs but at least those things won't eat you alive!" Deciding that sarcasm was fully justified, Doyle didn't offer a response as he opened fire again and again, exhausting the shotgun and spraying everything in range with gore.

"Here they come again!" yelled Plainview, unloading the remainder of his current magazine, before grabbing for a fresh one just as a young man missing his lower jaw (and most of the skin from his upper chest), rounded the corner closest to Plainview. The man took a few shuffling steps, and then suddenly stopped in place, making a vile retching noise, gargling blood and something else that was thick in the back of his throat.

Plainview had a few more moments to wonder what the hell was wrong with him when he suddenly retched and spewed something onto the floor, a sickly green-coloured liquid that hissed and spluttered like acid, easily corroding through the floor and leaving a cloud of searing steam from the contact point.

"Damn it, they're puking acid!" he yelled, putting a single bullet in between the man's eyes. He staggered back, as another gout of acid erupting from his mouth and showering his own head and a couple others in searing acid, and soon they all tumbled to the floor, large portions of their flesh scalded away.

Plainview was visibly sweating as another one rounded the corner and came at him at a speed he though impossible for these things, making a beeline straight for him. He barely had enough time to fire off a shot before a pair of grubby hands grabbed onto his Beretta, squeezing and forcing him to drop the weapon, before one hand grabbed onto his cheek, dirty nails cutting into his skin. Though that would prove be the least of his worries, as the zombie suddenly began retching, much like the first one had, and then spewed another stream of caustic acid directly into his face.

Plainview was screaming horribly as the creature continued holding onto him, the acid burning the skin off of his face, running down his open throat, blackening his teeth and scalding his throat and his internal organs, boiling him alive from the inside.

After what seemed like an eternity, Plainview felt the hands release, and he slumped to the floor, the sounds of gunfire, shouting, and moaning gradually fading out, as he felt his end drawing near. He clutched one hand to his chest, before coughing and retching, regurgitating the acid that had just previously been deposited down his throat. He couldn't close his eyes, couldn't even blink, as the acid had eaten his eyelids away, as well as his lips and most of his left cheek. All he could do was let out one last weak cough, before he fell face-first to the floor, as more zombies crouched over him, ready to feed.

Frederick Doyle watched Daniel Plainview's gruesome death and felt his stomach do a triple somersault. Would these monsters do the same to him, or would they just settle on tearing him into bloody chunks and devouring him like some all you could eat buffet? He didn't want it to end like this- his life wasn't destined to end like this. He looked around frantically, even as the zombies began to feast upon the poor CO's corpse. He might not have had much love for the guards before all this, but none of them deserved a death like that.

BOOM!

Warden Salt sent a few more of those rotting creeps to their end with a shotgun blast, glancing over towards where Plainview's body was being mobbed by even more of them, too intent on feeding to notice the other humans still standing. He turned away, and fired another load of buckshot, killing even more. Plainview was a good man, loyal and professional, and now his five year tenure as a CO in Raccoon Correctional had been shut down permanently, by these...zombies, as the others were now referring to them. The term didn't seem so ridiculous now.

"Goose! Stay close!" he ordered, knowing that it would be foolish to give these things an opportunity to divide and conquer. The burly man only nodded grimly and fired off the last few rounds in his M14, before grabbing for the last remaining magazine and slamming it home, pulling the bolt back, the loud metallic sound reverberating through the Warden's ears. In front of them, the undead horde showed no signs of slowing down, crammed wall-to-wall inside the corridor.

"Doyle! Stop napping!" yelled Salt as he inserted the last few shells he had left into the shotgun, and racking the charging handle.

He received no response.

"Doyle?"

When he still heard nothing, he turned his head immediately to scan the corridor, and saw that it was just himself and Goose. Doyle was nowhere in sight, and the door into his office had been left hanging open.

"Godammit Doyle, you didn't-?" he began to ask, before he was cut off by a sickening scream of agony, and he turned as quickly as he could dare.

Goose's M14 lay at his feet as at least three zombies clutched at him with bloody hands, tearing great hunks of flesh free from the inmate's chest and left shoulder, blood spraying across the ceiling. He managed to swing his arm with enough force to push a couple of them backwards, before grabbing his Beretta from his waistband and pushing it into the open mouth of a tall woman with filthy blonde hair and firing, blowing out the back of her skull, before trying to twist it around to execute another one, instead unleashing a few point-blank shots into the barrel chest of another blood-soaked man, before he released and sank his teeth into his prey once again, tearing off one of his ears in a spray of gore.

Warden Salt ignored the pained screams as he began to back away, knowing that Goose was beyond help now. He fired another round of buckshot, knocking more dead bodies to the floor, and cast another glance to the side to see Goose's body get pulled under an immense weight of zombie bodies. Part of him felt like such a fool, for dragging those people into this mess: the day before, and every other day in his tenure he saw them as scum that didn't deserve to live, but not even scum deserved this kind of fate.

He paused when he saw the familiar face of Jeremy Hicks in the crowd, reaching out for his former boss with one limp, bloody hand. Most of his shirt and body armour had been ripped free from his frame, exposing his deathly pale and scarred flesh to direct view. He let a tired moan escape from his bloody and cracked lips, his eyes just as dead and lifeless as the others surrounding him.

Salt felt his blood run cold. _How? How the hell did he turn into one of them? I saw him get pulled down, he was screaming! Unless..._

The pieces were coming together, even as he fired yet another shotgun blast, decapitating even more of these freaks, felt the blood land on his tongue and tasted its coppery tang. He fired off his final two shells, clearing the immediate space in front of him, before tossing the empty shotgun to the floor and making a dash inside his office, throwing the door shut and throwing the latch into place, just as hands began to pound against the thick wood from the other side.

Salt backed away, drawing his STI Eagle as he did, checking the magazine to see that he still had a full clip left- his only clip left. So his life came down to this then? Trapped like a rat, with only 15 bullets to extend his life with if they should break in? This wasn't how he expected it all to end, not back in the deserts of the Gulf, not ever.

He glanced over towards the window opposite the closed door, now wide open, a light breeze billowing in from outside. He walked over and peered out, over across the trees immediately outside of the prison grounds, and then straight down to the ground below. If Doyle had seriously considered jumping out this window, then he was either desperate, or insane- perhaps both. But he couldn't see his broken body, so he had gotten lucky in his jump. Maybe because there was a huge pile of black trash bags directly below the window, two weeks overdue for collection that had broken his fall. Either way, Salt glared down into the tree line, his anger rising.

"Doyle!" he yelled, as loud as he managed. "If you're going down screaming into hell, I'll be there to make sure the devil doesn't let you off lightly! Yellow-bellied coward!"

_Crash!_

He twisted away from the window and raised his weapon as the first zombie stumbled through the shattered remains of the oak, and put a bullet in its right eye, spinning it backwards into the others, who just shoved it aside as they drove at Salt, who opened fire, keeping himself calm and composed as he unloaded each round in sequence, squeezing the trigger rather than pulling it sharply.

BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

Each gunshot cut through his ears in the confined space, each shot slicing through the soft flesh and muscle of his rotting opponents, dropping a heavy body to the ground with each shot on target. But they just kept on coming, stumbling over one another and the bodies of the fallen, eager in their lust for flesh to get at the last living human in the building. He moved his way over towards his desk gradually, placing himself behind it and shoving it forwards, knocking another zombie backwards and giving him a little more breathing space.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

He carefully counted down the number of shots he had made in his head, holding back on the trigger when he reached fourteen, giving him one last bullet- the last bullet his life could possibly extend to. He looked into the pallid, empty faces of the 'people' before him, thinking what could possibly have driven them to such drastic, insane actions as to attack and murder their fellow man.

He turned the gun away from them, lifting it up beside his head. He had seen what had happened to Hicks and the others, bought back as one of _them_, cursed to forever wander and feed upon the living until put out of his misery. Of all the fates to ever befall someone, which was something he would never put himself in, no matter what. He stared down at the pistol in his hand, before he realised that the zombies were reaching over the desk towards him, moaning hungrily.

That gave him the drive to turn the weapon around, and push the barrel inside his open mouth, feeling the coppery tang of blood and some other unidentifiable substance that had coated the weapon in the recent fighting. He felt the cold steel brush against the inside of his cheek, and closed his eyes. Having served his time in the Gulf, and then here, he knew that he would die with no regrets. He always remembered the words his father spoke to him, when he was only a young boy.

'_Don't regret the things you've done...only what you haven't done.'_

_No regrets, _he thought to himself, as he closed his eyes tighter and curled his index finger around the trigger. He felt the fetid breath upon his face, and knew it was now or never.

He squeezed the trigger, and then all was dark, a serene clamness dropping him into eternal rest.

* * *

Frederick Doyle tumbled through the brush and landed on his rear, roughly, on what looked like an old hiker's path, in the process of being taken over by the surrounding undergrowth, but still useable. He gasped for breath and swung his shotgun here and there, towards the trees, his movements panicky and hectic.

It was a miracle he had landed on that pile of trash bags vaulting out the window, but he figured that breaking his legs would be preferable than being eaten alive by those 'things'. He had seen them drag down and eat Becker and Maitland alive, still screaming as hunks of skin, flesh and muscle were ripped clean from the bone, devoured like precious treats. It was horrific, and it was something that he wouldn't wish on anyone else, even as several of the CO's were dragged down too.

He looked back towards the prison. He could only see the top of the building and the perimeter fencing from here, the gunfire having long died out, though the muted moaning of the invaders still remained, from both inside and outside of the building. Though out of danger, he had still been close enough to hear Warden Salt yelling at him from the window, branding him a coward, of all things.

He was right. Doyle had relied upon men like Goose and Harker to establish his authority within those four walls, and then when it came to the crunch he had turned and abandoned them. He sighed and lowered his head, fighting back tears and despair. The confident bravado he would once display to everyone else who dared speak to him was gone, totally shattered like an egg subjected to a sledgehammer blow.

He turned away from the prison, and began to pick his way along the path, towards anywhere but right here. This was what he had yearned for so, but now that he had his freedom; it was bitter sweet to say the least.

* * *

Elsewhere, the prison bus trundled down the lonely forest path, throwing up dirt and dried twigs as its wheels carried its human cargo away from danger and towards supposed safety. The numerous people onboard remained largely silent, though a few of the inmates were still hung up on old grudges, giving one another dirty looks. And since Jessop was the only CO left alive to keep an eye on them all...he couldn't be everywhere at once.

"Where does this track lead, anyway?" asked Harrison suddenly from beside where the CO stood. He had almost forgotten that the inmate was still driving the bus, driving their salvation.

"Hopefully it comes out on the main highway, and then we can take it out of Raccoon County," he replied.

"We're not going into the city?" asked one of the prison cooks, sat in the nearest passenger seat, in between a pair of inmates.

"Floyd said that the town was in a mess," stated Jessop. "It's likely what happened at the prison is the same as in the town...everyone else could have been turned into those...things."

"You mean zombies?" asked one of the other inmates. He was given a few disbelieving looks, but Jessop seemed to accept that description. The people of Raccoon City hadn't been driven insane by some unknown factor; they were no longer human altogether. There was nothing human in those creature's eyes, as they drove at them by the dozen, biting and tearing at the unfortunate ones with their bare teeth and nails, spilling blood everywhere as they gorged on the flesh they could eat. He shivered inwardly as he remembered how he had watched some of the defenders fall, from his safety at the 2nd floor window.

And then those skinless beasts they had encountered outside of the prison; the ones with the lance-like tongues, which they had speared Barges with, taking his life in an instant. They were more like something from his worst nightmare, made flesh and reality. Were there any other kinds of demons, lurking in the shadows, waiting to strike?

He glanced to his right, noticing that the bus was now descending on a sloped road that circled one of the Arklay Mountains now, giving them a good overview of the Arklay Forest into the bargain. On the horizon was Raccoon City, several columns of thick black smoke stretching towards the heavens as fires raged out of control. Everyone else's eyes were soon drawn inextricably towards the same sight.

"My God..." whispered a voice that Jessop didn't recognise.

"It's like the whole city's on fire," added another voice.

"What happened?"

"Hell on earth," muttered Harrison, taking his eyes off the road, which Jessop knew was a recipe for disaster, and prepared to make his opinion noted when he turned back towards the road they were on and he lurched forwards, eyes impossibly wide.

"LOOK OUT!"

Harrison's head twisted back round as quick as he dared, just as the bus collided with the wooden sign that had been left in the centre of the track reading 'Road Closed'. The sign snapped in two, one half crashing against the bus's reinforced glass windscreen and causing most of it to crack and spider web. A few screams went up as Harrison fought to regain control of the bus.

"Oh, fuck me!" he then wailed, slamming on the brakes, causing several of the passengers to be thrown forward out of their seats. But that would soon be the last of their worries.

"Oh shit," muttered Jessop when he noticed that there was a rather large gap in the road in front of them, where the road was simply _gone, _having broken off of the mountain and now lying about 30 feet below them, in pieces.

Suddenly everything dropped, and Jessop felt himself thrown against the ceiling harshly, hard enough to dent the bus roof, and then he hit the floor, barely able to hear the myriad of screams and shouts from all around him as they were all tossed about like rats in a cage. Next thing he knew, he heard the crashing of trees as the bus dropped down into the trees directly below them, and then they hit the ground, and Jessop hit the ceiling once more, his head smacking against the thick steel, and he blacked out.

**A/N: So...yes there was**** very a long quiet period between this chapter and the last, but a hell of a lot of stuff was going on both at home and at work, so my time was somewhat limited of late.**

**Either way, some of you may have worked out the meaning of the title for this chapter, but for those of who that haven't, it basically refers to the actions of the two scenarios depicted: Warden Salt and his CO's are fighting to defend Raccoon Correctional Facility from the zombies and to save as many lives as possible, whereas the Scorpions have been destroyed owing to Kincade's arrogance and ignorance in thinking they can treat the outbreak as a cause for celebration.**

**Also, been watching 'The Wal****king Dead' on FX lately; based on the graphic novels- very good series. It focuses more on human drama and characterisation after the outbreak, rather than good old-fashioned zombie blasting (though there is the odd burst of zombie slaying in there, involving shotguns, rifles, and fire axes), and it also prompted me to come up with a 'zombie contingency plan', which is common sense really I guess. :p**

**Also got Castlevania: Lords of Shadow for Christmas, really the first Castlevania game I've ever played, and it is AMAZING. Full of epicness, satisfying combat, and plenty of awesome boss fights for you to battle through. Definitely the surprise hit of 2010, in my opinion. Did any of you fair readers get something cool from Santa at Christmas?**

**Anyway, R & R as usual please. The next chapter should at least come somewhat faster than this one.**


	10. Stranded

Chapter 10: Stranded

**September 27****th**** 1025 hours**

Little was said as the officers from the Raccoon County garrison entered the large command tent and took their seats, one by one, shuffling their papers before them. Lieutenant Fletcher was sat to the left side of the head of the large conference table which had been set up just minutes prior. Corporal Greene was sat to his immediate right, having come along at the Lieutenant's personal request. Captain Petrucci of the 12th Company was sat directly opposite, head lowered, propped up on one balled fist, looking as though he were on the verge of having a nervous breakdown.

_Taking a decision to gun down a load of civilians would do that to any military commander, _though Fletcher sadly. Petrucci was a good man, a little hot headed, but with good intentions at the end. No-one deserved to be pulled through the wringer like that, be portrayed as some jackboot-wearing Nazi officer who cared little for spilling innocent blood.

Green squirmed in his seat. "What's the matter, Corporal?" asked Fletcher with genuine interest.

"Nothing," replied Greene. "Just that it's not every day a Corporal gets invited along to a briefing for senior officers."

"You should feel honoured, Corporal," replied Fletcher, as another officer entered the tent, putting his coffee cup down before shuffling his papers. "And besides, you are the one who always acts on my orders, so you at least deserve to know what's going on as well, don't you?"

"I...guess so," said Greene quietly, looking around at the large TV screen at the far end of the tent, hanging from one of the canvas walls, whereby the commanders would converse with the other party involved in this briefing.

A few more officers entered, and then a few minutes later, Colonel Richard Adams, overall commander of the relief and quarantine effort, entered the tent, followed by a pair of armed MP's, who took up flanking positions on either side of the entrance flaps as the Colonel sat himself down and sighed a little, running a hand back through his hair.

"Officer on ground," stated one of the MP's prompting the others to rise to their feet and issue a sharp salute.

Colonel Richard Adams was a bullish-looking, balding man in his fifties, with a notoriously short temper, known for coming down hard on the soldiers for the most minor infractions imaginable at the barracks. Most of the rank and file men respected Fletcher at a much higher capacity, since he knew most of their strengths and was willing to give each of them another chance if they messed up. Then again, one couldn't change how the bureaucracy of the high command worked.

"First of all gentlemen, thank you all for coming at such short notice," began Colonel Richards, opening a file before him and flicking through a few sheets of paper. "And hopefully, we'll be connected through in a few minutes," he then added, glancing over towards the large screen as a pair of technicians fiddled around with it, one of them switching in on, revealing a screen of black, the words 'No Transmission' displayed in the top left corner in green blocky letters.

"Can never rely on this modern technology," muttered one of the officers under his breath, but luckily his remark went unheeded by the others, even as Colonel Richards spoke up once again.

"While we're waiting, perhaps you can enlighten me on the current situation at each of your assigned stations," he said, a request, not a question. "Lieutenant?"

"So far Colonel we're catering for nearly a hundred refugees from the city," replied Fletcher without missing a beat. "Our initial venture into the city found many survivors, and the Blackhawk insertions are finding more, but in much smaller numbers. It's safe to say that most of Raccoon City has been reduced to chaos. All attempts to contact the R.P.D or any other emergency services have been fruitless. Either their radio links are down...or there's no-one else left to pick up the phone."

Adams just nodded at that grim remark, before turning towards Captain Petrucci. "Captain?" he then asked, but Petrucci didn't even acknowledge the question initially, he just kept his head down, one hand across the back of his head.

"Captain Petrucci!"

"I'm sorry," said Petrucci, looking up suddenly, his face somewhat pale. He rubbed his head a little more before replying, causing a few of his fellow officers to whisper amongst themselves in concern

"Uh...recon patrols lead by Corporal Davis and Sergeant Leland have confirmed that most of the population of Raccoon City has come under the influence of what appears to be...mass insanity."

"Insanity?" asked Adams quietly.

Petrucci nodded. "I saw it myself, at the checkpoint before I authorised those patrols," he explained, slowly and deliberately. "When the refugees were trying to push through, a few of them attacked everyone else, biting and tearing at them with their bare teeth...it was like something out of a nightmare...That's why I gave the order for my men to open fire"-

"Captain, you had to make a decision in the heat of the moment," replied Adams, quoting a line that had become common amongst CO's for justifying their junior officers making rash decisions that ended with a loss of civilian life. "If you hadn't acted, then the loss might have been much higher." Petrucci lowered his head, not looking fully convinced.

"Petrucci has a good point," noted Fletcher as he piped up suddenly. "When my men came back from their initial entry, they said most of the population showed symptoms similar to what Petrucci has just described. Impossible to reason with, heightened pain resistance, you name it."

"Yes, my men reported seeing the same," piped up another officer, sat across from Colonel Adams. "They say one of them took nearly 30 rounds to the torso to go down. And these were 5.56 rounds, not 9 mils! You can imagine what that person looked like at the end."

"Interesting," whispered Adams, nodding slightly. "Perhaps the toxic waste is having an adverse effect upon the people"-

The same officer who had just spoken before scoffed loudly. "Somehow I seriously doubt that Colonel. Sure we only covered a small area when my troops went in, but we found no evidence of a toxic waste spill! Just a lot of destruction, dead bodies and those 'people', whatever you want to call them."

"We're good to go," announced one of the technicians suddenly, turning to face the officers, even as the words on the screen changed to 'incoming transmission', and the black was replaced with a screen of crackling static.

"We can discuss that later, gentlemen," responded Adams as he shuffled his papers again and looked up towards the screen, the static clearing somewhat.

"Here we go," whispered Fletcher, and the image cleaned up entirely to show the image of what looked like a corporate boardroom, a massive oak table taking up most of the space, half a dozen figures sat at each side of the table, each of them dressed in suits that probably covered at least three months worth of Fletcher's pay. The far wall had been replaced by a plate glass window, showing a panorama of countless skyscrapers and other tall buildings. In the background, the unmistakeable outlines of the Empire State Building could be seen.

There was a brief spell of chatter from the other end of line as the suited men spoke between one another, until the man sat at the head of the table raised his hand, and they all quietened down. Though he looked ancient, what little hair he had on his head snow white; he was clearly someone of great importance and authority, earning the utmost respect from the other suited men.

"Colonel Adams, I presume?" asked the old man, his hoarse voice carrying well despite his age.

"That is correct," replied Adams, as he and all the other officers rose to their feet. From the opposite end of the transmission, Lord Ozwell E. Spencer, CEO of Umbrella Incorporate, nodded in confirmation, as the other men in the boardroom, each of them directors of one of the company's major facilities throughout the world, followed suit. They were currently in New York to hold crisis talks regarding the Raccoon City incident, and had requested this conference to see how things were on the ground.

"On behalf of the Raccoon County Garrison, I'd like to thank you all from taking the time to hold this video conference," stated Adams coolly, reeling the words off with years worth of PR and media-handling experience.

"Of course Colonel," replied Spencer, before pausing to let off a few wracking coughs. "How goes the quarantine effort?"

"We've secured the borders of Raccoon City, which includes the freeway and all major traffic entry routes into the city, and we have checkpoints set up at regular intervals," explained Adams. "No-one will be able to get in and out of the city without us knowing about it first."

"What about survivors?" asked one of the other directors, hand rested on his chin. To Fletcher, he looked bored stiff out of his mind, despite everything that was at stake.

"So far we're catering for just under a few hundred refugees from the city and more continue to trickle in over the hour, partly thanks to regular Blackhawk patrols initiated by some of our troops," continued Adams, indicating towards Fletcher, amongst others. "You can thank Lieutenant Fletcher for the idea."

"That is very thoughtful of you, Lieutenant," added another voice, bearing a New York accent that dripped with barely-disguised contempt and arrogance. The camera feed turned towards a man with white hair and a well-trimmed beard, one leg crossed over the other as he leaned back slightly in his seat. "But what about the chance that any of them could already have been contaminated by the waste?"

Tobias Greene was just about able to disguise the fact that he flinched at the sound of that voice, his stomach tying itself into knots. It was _that _voice. That exact same voice that he had heard the day beforehand, contacting him out of the blue.

_It's him! But why a director with Umbrella?_

"-they are humans in the end, Mr Lindeman, not pieces of meat or stock that you can just stick in the corner and leave to gather dust," retorted Fletcher, keeping the sarcasm from his voice. After all, it wouldn't help matters much in sassing one of Umbrella's directors. "We're doing strict testing on each person we bring out and offering them the utmost medical attention. Trust me, if there was anyone contaminated, we would know about it."

"Enough," said Spencer sharply, before Lindeman could offer another waspish reply. Instead the bearded man just shifted in his seat a little and fell silent, leaving the air clear for others to speak.

"Yes, we didn't come all this way just to take snipes at one another," added Colonel Adams, and a few of the other officers assembled settled down too. "Now, we've got a lot of ground to cover, Mr Spencer, and we all have other things to get back too, right?"

Tobias Greene didn't register the multitude of replies that circled the tent, as he was too fixated on that damned voice from before, now sounding directly in his ears from the other end of the country. He could even feel those eyes on him, a trace of disgust and contempt prickling the hairs on the back of his neck.

He'd been dragged into doing something he had no love of, through sheer desperation, and now he was beginning to dread exactly what he had been pulled into, even as all the other voices continued to drone on.

* * *

Peyton Jessop groaned as his eyes flickered open briefly and all he saw as a random mesh of grey and other muted colours. He blinked a couple of times, clearing his vision somewhat, and he found himself staring up at the ceiling of the prison bus, heavily dented from where he had been thrown against the ceiling.

He tried to sit up, but immediately a great pain shot through the back of his head and his ribs in general, and he fell flat again, gasping in pain, cradling his stomach with his hands. He blinked again, and this time his view cleared up entirely. He could hear nothing, save for his own breathing and the gentle thud of his heartbeat.

_Wh-what happened? We were taking the mountain road-_

-and then they plunged off the road, down into the trees, when they realised far too late that the road was just _gone _beneath their wheels. It was a small miracle that he wasn't killed outright by the impact, but then his thoughts turned to everyone else on the bus with him at the time.

He managed to ease himself into a seated position, and shook his head a few times, before reaching around and touching the back of his head. He felt something sticky and warm, and bought his hand back around to see a smear of blood on his hand. He'd cracked his head open during the crash, but luckily not enough to kill him outright. Still, it would probably be an idea to get it checked out when he could.

Which in this current locale, seemed to be no time soon.

He rose to his feet shortly afterwards, and wiped his left hand across his face, seeing that there was blood trickling from his nose too. He stared at it for a while, before turning around, seeing that all of the other seats were totally bare, a few of them just gone entirely from where the bus's steel frame had been ripped clean from the chassis, either from the rock face or from the trees during the fall. He looked around in a daze, and then turned again towards the front, to see an orange-clad figure slouched in the driver's seat.

"Harrison," he whispered, moving over towards the front, feeling his vision fade a few times, and he stumbled once, shooting his arm out to grab for the seat beside him to steady himself. He was soon just behind the driver's seat, and he stopped in his tracks.

Harrison wasn't alive, that much was certain. A massive branch had speared through the bus windscreen and impaled Harrison through the centre of his torso like a lance, punching right through to the back of the seat itself and into the one behind it. His mouth was locked open into a never ending scream of agony, his spectacles lying on the floor a few feet away, shattered utterly. Jessop sighed and turned away, towards where one side of the driver's compartment had been sheared off by the fall, giving him a clear escape into the morning air.

He currently stood in a small clearing, the mountain and the bus wreckage to his back and the tree line in front of him, a light wispy fog drifting through the tall grass and shrubs he could also see. He also saw the twisted wreckage and the bodies which littered the ground. He counted at least three in orange jumpsuits, and another four in plain clothing, the other prison staff. They all lay in broken and twisted positions, arms and legs at awkward, stiff angles. He then glanced up, and saw another body dangling high up in one of the trees, speared on a thin tree branch.

"Ugh," he sighed, shaking his head. "What a damn waste," he added, looking about to see if there was any other sign. But he saw none, and he was beginning to piece together what had happened.

The others were gone, having left him for dead. They had taken all the remaining weapons with them too, and a quick search of the bus showed that included his M14 rifle and Barges shotgun too- hell, even his Beretta, tucked into the waistband of his pants, had been taken too. He was glad they didn't take the shirt off his back as well. And since there were no other CO's with the remaining survivors...it meant there were a number of inmates running about with lethal weapons and a number of other non-com personnel as potential prisoners. Any prison governor would see that as the worst possible case scenario.

He was the only one left alive that could possibly do anything about this entire mess, but considering the state he was in, what could he possibly do to salvage things? He was in no state to be on his feet, let alone chasing after armed inmates through rough terrain-

-and yet Warden Salt had given him this responsibility to look out for the others, and he would be damned if he was going to allow the warden's last command to go unheeded. He turned back towards the crumpled remains of the bus chassis, looking to see if it contained anything useful to help him on the journey ahead, even if it lead him towards a violent death.

A quick search of the glove compartment and the vehicle's portable first aid kit turned up a .38 revolver and 18 spare rounds for it (better than nothing), along with a few rolls of bandages, one of which he wrapped around his head carefully, in order to cover his wound, and also a small bottle of painkillers. He emptied a dozen red oval-shaped pills into his pocket, and swallowed two of them down to help ease his aching body. He took a few more moments to gather his bearings and to allow his pains to ease and his bleeding to clot somewhat, before he clicked the revolver opened and checked that it was clean and would work properly when he fired it. Last thing he needed was for his only means of defence to fail him out here, in the middle of nowhere.

That taken care of, he began to circle the edge of the clearing, looking for any sign to show him where the others had gone, taking his time. There were at least two dozen of them, so it shouldn't have been that hard to track them. He noticed some broken bracken out the corner of his eye and moved in for a closer look, crouching down. His father had once shown him the tricks for tracking animals through woodland, and the sight of broken brush at ground level showed that someone had clearly walked through here. He could also discern the odd impression of feet in the somewhat soft soil, leading into the trees. He stood up and looked in the same direction, feeling his uneasiness building.

The fog had increased somewhat since he had first stepped out of the wreckage, giving a somewhat ominous appearance to the towering trees and the thick undergrowth which surrounded his feet, as though something dangerous was just waiting out of direct sight, ready to strike. He thought of the skinless beasts that had killed Barges once more, and he tightened his grip on the revolver, wondering what other horrors lurked out there.

_Well, I won't accomplish anything by just standing around..._

He took a step forward, and a dry twig snapped underfoot. He cursed his rookie mistake and winced, but he heard nothing in response. Taking a short breath of relief, he stepped forwards again.

There was an abrupt burst of movement to his left and he nearly jumped out of his skin as a small number of crows took flight from a tree about 100 yards to his left, and he watched them as they ascended into the sky, trailing a few loose feathers, before circling in the sky a couple times and then departing towards the distance, cawing as they went. Jessop briefly remembered Pierce's fate, and shuddered. At least these crows didn't come after him, going for his juicy eyeballs.

He turned back towards the foreboding Arklay Forest, and then plunged onwards after a few more moments of hesitation, his feet crashing through the undergrowth.

* * *

A lone man in the uniform of the U.B.C.S wandered down one of Raccoon's numerous side streets, his Benelli shotgun acting almost as though it were an extension of his own body, sweeping to and fro as it scanned for danger. But there were none, aside from the odd maddened crow which pecked at fallen corpses, but easily scared off as the figure drew closer.

Mac sighed and wiped his brow with the back of his left glove. Gary was still asleep in the upstairs apartment when he had set out 10 minutes ago, to give their immediate surroundings a scope out, to see if he could find anything of use that could aid them: food, medical supplies; although ammunition was the main concern, as last he remembered Schaffer was out of ammo for his M4, and if he could find the fallen corpse of a fellow comrade, then perhaps he'd be able to secure something for both of them. Right now, anything would be a blessing for the lone mercs. It was likely they were the only ones still alive in the entire regiment.

He paused when he saw a dead body lying within a shadowy doorway just a few yards ahead of him. Not wanting to take any chances, he reached around and clicked on his shotgun's flashlight attachment, illuminating the doorway. He could now see that the body used to be a young man wearing grey pants and white sneakers, the rest of his features practically unrecognisable, having been eaten away by zombies or some other unknown horror long ago. The skin and flesh had been stripped away, leaving only a bloody mass of muscle behind.

Mac grunted in disgust and raised a hand to his nose to cover the overwhelming stench of blood and decay. He stepped away, positive that the threat had long since moved on, and glanced around to decide on his next course of action-

-when he saw the Alsatian canine standing just a few yards away from him, in the middle of the street, one of its eyes hanging loose from its socket, clutching a hunk of bloody meat in its jaws. It fixed the human with a blank glare from its remaining eye, a growl rising in the back of its throat.

"Easy boy," whispered Mac, extending one arm out slowly. "Easy now"-

The dog dropped its current meal and then launched straight at Mac, its growl rising up into an abrupt bark as it prepared to sink its blood teeth into the live human, but Mac was much faster in bringing the barrel of his shotgun round to bear, pulling the trigger as it came within a few inches.

BOOM!

At such extreme close range, the dog's head simply popped like a blood-filled balloon, showering Mac in blood and other bodily fluids, and dropping the rest of its body to the tarmac with a dull 'thump'. He continued to look down at the corpse for a while, and then sighed in disgust once more, wiping his hand across the breast of his flak vest and flinging it to the ground at his feet.

"Shit...it was bad enough being covered in that green shit," he grumbled, remembering their fight with that unknown monster in the utility plant the previous day.

What the hell was it supposed to be? It was unlike anything he had seen throughout his career in the U.B.C.S. And the fact it showed such sheer power and resilience, even after growing to a massive size from being only two feet long was a major cause for concern. Umbrella's bio-weapons were constantly improving: every mission showed him some new way for a man to be killed, whether it was bones that shatter, flesh that was torn-

What did Umbrella intend to use their creations on? His time in the U.B.C.S had told him very little directly, although some of the veteran members had said they had been constantly improving their bio-weapons for years. Apparently some of the higher researchers saw humanity as inferior to these test-tube bred creatures.

He was broken out of his reverie by the sight of a small brick building just ahead of him, set into the corner of another apartment building which was identical to all the others he had seen in this damn city so far. As he drew closer, he saw the small white sign hanging just beside the open entrance, a black square against the deep red brick. The simple, blocky depictions of a man and a woman displayed upon it.

It was a public restroom. And it looked practically untouched by all the madness and chaos in the city, making it stick out like a sore thumb, and catching his attention as a result. He came closer still, and finally saw something on the ground a few feet away from the entrance, a thin tube-like object that was emanating a few red sparks and a trace of smoke from one end. It was a signal flare used by U.B.C.S, and red meant that a previous squad, or maybe even a lone survivor, had deployed the flare as a means to show any fellow comrades they had passed through this way.

_Some survivors may be close...can't pass this opportunity up._

He raised his shotgun once more, and began to pick forward slowly and steadily, his eyes scanning left and right frequently, searching for anything just within or outside of his peripheral vision.

He entered into the restroom and finally felt the sound of the wind outside drop out, muffled by the brickwork surrounding him. He moved forwards, where he saw two separate entrances, one for the woman's restroom, and the second, further along, for the men. He came up beside the women's entrance quickly, adopting the classic entry position that had been drilled into his head during his training days in the S.A.S.

_One thing that's served me well since...can't say the same about that damn Selection though: that was hell._

He returned to the present quickly, and held his breath, before he spun around into the open doorway, shotgun raised.

He saw nothing and no-one. The restroom was completely abandoned, its space instead filled with abandoned stepladders, piles of un-laid tiles, rolls of electricity wiring, and other building detritus. Most of the lights were also out completely, and it was only then he realised that the women's restroom was currently being refurbished, hence the generals disarray.

"Hello?" he called out, his voice shattering the silence abruptly. "I'm not a threat," he then added, in case anyone hiding out of sight was armed and looking to blow his head off. It had happened before on previous missions- human or U.B.C.S survivors driven insane by the horrors of an outbreak and turning on one another.

_Sometimes the darkness inside the human body is more dangerous than the zombies..._

When he received no reply, he gingerly stepped inside, clicking on his shotgun's flash light, nosing the bright cone of light into dark corners and crevices, into the open cubicles, searching for any sign of life. But he found none, and wasted no more time, moving on to the men's restroom instead.

He knew that this second half of the restrooms wouldn't be as simple as the women's side when he heard the sudden _bzzt _of an electrical source sparking every now and then. He slowed right down this time, clicking off his light as he came within two feet of the doorway, the almost sheer darkness beyond the threshold more ominous than anything he had seen so far in Raccoon City. He could feel his heart rate begin to pick up somewhat as he detected the stench of blood and sweat, but he began to take a few deep breaths, feeling his pulse start to slow down somewhat. Then once he felt as though he were ready, he swung around and snapped his light on, ready to blind anyone or anything that was directly on the other side.

To say the men's restroom was a mess would be the understatement of the century.

Almost all of the lights were out, like in the women's restroom, sparks emanating from the ruptured fitting, shards of glass from light tubes littering the tiled floor, combined with reflective shards from the long mirror along the far right wall, long broken by some unseen force. As if that weren't enough to add to the space's state of disarray, there was blood splattered _everywhere. _The walls, the floor, even the _ceiling. _But he could see no bodies in the immediate vicinity, which begged the question where the blood had come from originally. With so much of it splattered about, it was certain the original owner(s) were dead.

"Hello?" he called out again, sweeping his light back and forth. No-one replied, and he took a few tentative steps inside the doorway, into the general centre of the restroom, keeping his ears and eyes peeled, paying particular attention to the central row of cubicles, all of them shut currently, but anyone or anything could be lurking just out of reach behind one of the flimsy doors.

He circled the edge of the cubicles, and his torch fell across a blood-splattered corpse at his feet, the first of at least haf a dozen bodies that littered this side of the restroom, all of them dressed in the uniform of the U.B.C.S. Mac's face was grim and set as he looked around at each body in turn, all of them having been killed while still holding their weapons.

"Damn," he whispered, as he guided his light over the faces of the nearest bodies. He didn't recognise their faces per se, but he recognised the emblem of Bravo Platoon on their right shoulders, and he also saw the face of Bravo's platoon leader, Captain Emmerich, at the far side of the room, slumped up against the far wall, his forehead marked with a single perfect gunshot wound. Mac frowned as he drew closer to the body, casting a quick glance down towards the third body he stepped over, seeing his clavicle was marked with a pair of gunshots. In fact, he noticed that all of the bodies were marked with gunshot wounds.

"Zombies didn't do this...but who did?" he whispered to himself as he crouched before Emmerich's body, the man's eyes rolled back into his skull, skin beginning to pale, his blood already somewhat sticky as it pooled beneath his form. Some time had passed since his death, but he guessed that the murderer could still be lurking in the area-

As if to prove his point, he immediately heard a noise behind him and turned as quickly as he dared, rising to his feet and hoisting his shotgun to eye level, ready to blow away anyone who had any thoughts of butting a bullet in his skull. His light illuminated the silhouette of a figure standing just behind the corner of the cubicle he had come from, somewhat unsteady on their feet. He could discern that the figure was holding one arm out towards him, and he could hear very faint breathing too.

"Hey there, sorry about that," said Mac as he lowered his shotgun somewhat. "Are you"-

"Your fault..."

Mac furrowed his brow. "Excuse me?"

"Your fault...all your fault..." the voice continued, oblivious to Mac's question.

"Look, I'm putting my gun down," said Mac diplomatically as he lowered his shotgun fully, letting it hand from its strap behind him, raising his open hands to show that they were empty. He also finally got a chance to get a good look at his aggressor.

It was yet another figure in the uniform of the U.B.C.S, his tactical vest missing, along with one of the sleeves on his olive green shirt, blood splattered all across the rest of his person, mostly emanating from the bite wounds to both his left thigh and torso. As a result the man seemed to be favouring his right side to stand on, showing a noticeable slouch. He was holding a blood-soaked SIG Pro handgun too, aiming it directly at Mac's sternum.

"All your fault," the man continued, half-whisper, half-scowl, "it's all your fault..."

"What's my fault?" asked Mac in response, playing along with the man's delusions. Not doing so could get him killed easily...much like the poor souls surrounding him right now.

He could see the man's face now: black hair shaved very close to the scalp, young face, and blue eyes that once were quite bright, but were now somewhat faded in colour, a clear indicator the T-Virus was working its insidious corruption on his body. His left cheek was largely gone too, from where a set of bare teeth had ripped most of the skin and flesh away. His mouth was twisted up into a deranged sneer.

"Your fault...it's all your fault this happened..."

"Hudson...it wasn't my fault what happened to you and the others," he said, trying to reason with Bravo's pointman. Garth Hudson was a decent enough man at the barracks, even though he was very quiet and focused too when needed. But now it looked as though he had gone right off the deep end.

"-Umbrella's fault!" hissed Hudson, taking a shaky step forwards, ignoring Mac completely. "Umbrella's fault we were sent into...Raccoon...doomed us all"-

"I had nothing to do with this!"

"-company doomed us all...look at me! I'm as good as dead," continued Hudson, taking another step forwards. "Did...did them all a favour..." he then added, indicating the corpses surrounding them. "We all know a bullet's...the only way to stop...zombification..." Mac cast a wary glance around at the bodies littering the restroom, his mind piecing together exactly what had happened.

Hudson had turned on his fellow comrades, gunning them down as surely as they were zombies themselves. And he would do the same to the Scotsman if he was provoked the wrong way. He turned back towards Hudson, trying to reason with him further.

"No, that's not always the way," said Mac quietly. "I haven't been bitten, look," he then added, indicating the unbroken flesh on his bare arms and his torso, but Hudson was too far gone to be reasoned with. That deranged smile had never faltered once, and he seemed to be lost miles away. He took another shaky step, blood gushing out from his facial wound in a gruesome display that the point man didn't seem to acknowledge.

"...I'll set you free Mac," he muttered instead, raising the gun to head height. "I'll set us all free...save the last for myself, of course..." His grin seemed to grow even wider at the prospect, and Mac knew then and there that he couldn't talk Hudson down from his deranged stance.

He'd have to get physical to take this madman down. But with a gun in his face, he'd have to think on his feet and use any opportunity given to him by the general surroundings-

The lights dimmed, only for a moment, plunging them both into darkness, and Mac knew he would never get another chance like this. He lunged forwards, swinging his fist towards Hudson's face from the left, towards his bloody cheek, as it happened.

_Thwack!_

He felt the warm sensation of fresh blood on his bare fingers, and then Hudson was flying to the side, crashing against the nearest cubicle door and barking out a cough, the SIG Pro dropping from his hand to the tiled floor. Mac stumbled back in surprise, gasping in shock at what had just transpired, staring at his bloody fist. Hudson's smirk had finally faded now, replaced by a look of blank resignation. He stared ahead for a few seconds, before breaking out into another fit of coughs, blood bursting from his lips. Mac just watched him, as Hudson remained slumped over, before reaching around to find his sidearm after what seemed like an eternity.

His fingers groped around uselessly beside one of the fallen bodies, before searching in the other direction. He began to mumble to himself.

"Set you free...set you free...set you free..."

He managed to find his sidearm, curling his fingers around the handle awkwardly, bringing it back around.

"Set you free..."

He slumped up straight against the cubicle, and looked Mac right in the eye, his own eyes almost entirely glazed over now. It wouldn't be long before he turned.

"Set you free..." he continued, raising the gun up a few inches, as far as he could manage. "Set you free..."

Then, his strength ran out and he dropped the handgun to the tiles, gasping for breath as he did so. Mac continued to watch in silence, even as Hudson managed a soft chuckle, from somewhere in the depths of his blood-choked throat. Finally, he glanced up at his 'saviour', his eyes just looking very sad and empty.

"Set me free...Mac," he whispered. "Set me free...please...before"-

Mac was already lifting his handgun from its holster as Hudson begged for his life to be ended. He kept it hanging at his side for a while longer, looking down at the broken shell of what was once a good man; a good, quiet man who always did what was asked of him. And the pitiful thing he had been reduced to, begging for his own life to be ended then and there.

"Set me free..."

Mac slowly raised the handgun to around level with Hudson's chest, and then pulled the trigger.

Sometime later, Gary Schaffer was only beginning to arise from his slumber, unaware of just how long he had been out, when he heard a door open and went for his handgun instinctively, sweeping around to face the entry passage, as Mac came into view. There was a rather subdued look on his face, and he was holding what looked like a bandolier in his arms. After a few moments of tense silence, Schaffer lowered his weapon.

"Where have you been?" asked the younger man.

"Went out to scout the general terrain," he replied, swinging the bandolier around and opening one of the pouches, dumping a few objects onto the wooden floor with noticeable 'thuds'. Schaffer sat up when he saw that they were ammunition clips for an M4 assault rifle.

"Where did-?"

"I found a few of our dead comrades," explained Mac, as he set about strapping the cloth around his own torso, parts of which glinted in the light from where 12 gauge shotgun shells were displayed, along with a few other items. "They didn't need it anymore, so why let it go to waste?"

"Right, of course," replied Schaffer, somewhat sheepishly, as he retrieved his bone-dry M4 and slapped a fresh clip home, pulling the bolt back. "Thanks."

"Get yourself ready, we're moving on soon as," stated Mac, turning away towards the entrance and checking his shotgun.

"Hey Mac," asked Schaffer as he set about storing his new ammunition in the pouches of his tactical vest, "did you find anything else when you were out there?"

Mac was glad that he was currently facing away from Schaffer, so the younger man wouldn't see the fact he nearly flinched at that question, or the somewhat downbeat look on his face. It had been a long time since he had last killed a man, an actual _human _rather than one of Umbrella's screw-ups. He had forgotten the maelstrom of emotions that came with such an act, from the initial act of pulling the trigger in the heat of the moment and the adrenaline kick, to the realisation that you had just taken a precious human life away: something only though possible through God's hand.

Last time, he had killed because he had no choice. This time, part of him still felt as though he could have resolved things peacefully with Hudson, if only he had tried a little harder to reason with the man, tried to ease his pain a different way. But the look in his eyes was downright terrifying; and since he had already killed six others before Mac had arrived, it was an unlikely outcome anyway.

"Mac?"

He bristled when he realised that Schaffer was still waiting for an answer.

"No, nothing. Let's get going."

* * *

Located in downtown Raccoon, Jefferson Essentials fulfilled the stationary needs of practically every business in the Raccoon County area, holding contracts and deals in most of the neighbouring towns, and even a few in the neighbouring states. One of the more recent additions to the town, its graffiti-free walls stood out as a stark contrast to the red-bricked structures that surrounded it, 10 stories above street level.

Normally a bustle of activity, the entire building was starkly silent and devoid of life. Well, human life at least. A few of the former employees lingered, shambling back and forth through the lines of office cubicles or along the carpeted corridors, leaving crimson smears behind them. Others simply stood in place, moaning hauntingly or just staring dead ahead, even if it was just at the nearest wall. More still crouched over the remains of those unfortunate enough to be caught up in the madness, feasting on the flesh and internal organs that spilled from their ruptured stomachs.

Somewhere up on the 5th floor, the door into one of the supply closest creaked open, and the face of a fairly pretty girl in her early twenties, her raven black hair tied back in a ponytail, wearing black dress pants with a white shirt, her green eyes red and sore from a fairly recent bout of heavy tears. She squinted slightly in the light, surprised to see that it was daylight. She must have been cooped up in that tiny space for at least a day, she reckoned.

Kelly Preston was a bright, charming girl from a fairly well-done family in Chicago, and now she had been dumped into the middle of a living nightmare. That was the only thing she could think of to explain the people who had swarmed in through the front doors of the building the day before hand, killing anyone who was within range.

This wasn't how she expected her life to turn out. Gaining a first-class degree in Medicine at university, she had never expected to find herself working a 40 hour week in an organisation that sold pencils, pens and paper to all kinds of larger businesses, earning a wage which barely covered the rent on her tiny uptown apartment, but she guessed it was somewhat naive to expect to fall into a great job as soon as she had left university. She knew it would be a hard slog to achieve her ambitions, but she never expected to end up working in a role so far from her intended profession.

Though of course, she never expected a wave of sick-looking people to come crashing through the front doors the previous day, mowing down and killing anyone in their path. And then...eating what was left. She had almost been sick the first time she had seen the horrific scenes, even her 3 years of working in medicine and seeing a few live autopsies doing little to prepare her for the sickening sight of her colleagues being devoured like they were just pieces of meat. She had been practically standing at the doors to the stairwell, on her way down to the canteen for her break, when they had come piling in through the doors.

She had ran soon after they had killed Malcolm, the security guard stood beside the door, and the two receptionists, Gina and Karen, had been dragged down. She had pounded up the steps to the fifth floor where her desk was based, in time to see the woman who sat beside her, Anna, tearing out the throat of one of the young interns with a feral savageness. And her once blue eyes had been reduced to a pale off-white colouration, resembling dull glassy marbles rather than parts of her human body.

Kelly had somehow managed to lock herself inside one of the supply closets on that floor, ignoring the screams of her co-workers and the haunting moans that came from the people who had forced their way into the building in the first place. She had thought for several terrifying moments that they would find her and tear her apart like all the rest, but somehow she had evaded a messy death. Was she just that damned lucky, or was God just having some sick joke at her expense? It was hard to tell.

She carefully peered left and right down the corridor, seeing that it was clear, though the crimson splatters across the carpet indicated the gruesome scenes from yesterday. She closed the door behind her lightly and moved towards the window, peering down into the street below. Even from here she could see the figures walking around below at street level, surrounded by car wrecks, shattered shop fronts and other signs of general chaos.

_What happened...?_

She had no explanation so far. Hell, maybe there was _no _explanation for what had transpired so far. History was full of strange events that had never had a direct explanation for their origin and wider meaning, and this looked to be one of them. There was no logical explanation as to why so many of Raccoon's citizens had turned to mass insanity. Insanity being the key word here.

And the cannibalism. Ever since July the city had been held in the grip of fear caused by the gruesome cannibal cult murders that had occurred as far back as June, petering out by July, and then suddenly starting up again last month with no explanation whatsoever. Though the R.P.D's elite S.T.A.R.S team had been decimated following an ill-fated operation a few months back- with the truth still not fully confirmed- the case was declared closed.

How wrong they had been, and now the madness had engulfed the entire town.

She took a few steps away and nearly toppled, realising that she still wore her black work shoes, complete with heels. Hardly the most practically footwear in most cases, but it was part of the work uniform, no matter how much she had protested, even with calluses the size of Kansas. With a soft sigh, she reached around and slipped them off, leaving her barefoot, but somewhat less afflicted in her general movement. She began to make her way down the corridor once more, towards the staff rooms, making sure to step over any puddles of gore she saw.

She paused for a few moments at the edge of where the corridor opened out into one of the office spaces, and saw a figure standing at the far side, facing away from her, blindly staring out of the window and swaying lightly on the spot. A soft moan issued from the figure as Kelly started to make a move, pausing in place when she heard the sound. She stared straight towards the figure for a while longer, before she began to move again, once she was certain that the person hadn't noticed her being there.

Her foot nudged against something and she glanced down to see a severed arm just in front of her, the spot just above the elbow badly chewed away by human teeth, blood still pooled around the jagged stump.

She quickly brought her hands up to her mouth just as she let out a scream, muffling the sound. She glanced over towards the swaying figure again, eyes wide, but thankfully he hadn't noticed the sudden sound and remained staring out the window. Leaving her hands where they were, she carefully circled the arm, keeping one eye firmly on the figure's back, before making a hurried walk towards the corridor a few feet away, just as the figure groaned and turned in her general direction, exposing the muscle tissue across his chest as he did so.

Further along the corridor, Kelly had to suppress yet another scream when she almost tripped over the body of Robert McKendrick, one of the senior managers on her floor. The man was a prick frankly, treating all the other staff as his personal slaves, and not averse to trying to touch up a few of the females as well (despite being 'happily married', like that counted for anything nowadays). But despite all that, he hadn't deserved the fate before Kelly now, one of his eyes gouged out and most of the skin and flesh around his neck and chest eaten away. She swallowed lightly, dispelling the taste of bile from the back of her throat, and skirted around him, heading towards the staff locker rooms.

She found them without any further difficulties, and quickly found her own locker, her name printed across the stark white of the front label, and dug the key out of her pocket, turning it in the lock with a metallic 'clunk'. There was little inside, save for her casual clothes in a carrier bag, left over from when she had first arrived at work the previous day, her black jacket, and a pair of white sneakers that had been her favourite pair for the last 3 years, even though they were beat up and starting to come apart at a few of the seams. But she was at least glad to have something to put on her feet.

She spent the next few tense minutes changing into her sneakers, constantly glancing over her shoulder to check for anything trying to sneak up on her. That done, she took a few moments to check her appearance in the mirror, her eyes showing dark circles beneath them, but also a sore quality, reminding her of her tears following her initial moment of taking cover in that closet.

She could still hear the screams of her co-workers in her ears as they were torn apart like strips of meat being thrown to wild dogs. After living through the misery and sorrow of these last 18 months, she was sure that she was strong enough for whatever else life could throw at her, just as she was finishing her final year at university.

But this...she wasn't so sure. Could she keep going, through the insanity and all the death?

She shook her head, knowing that those kinds of thoughts wouldn't help her current predicament at all, as she began to mentally repeat her personal mantra.

_I can get through this. I will get through this..._

She left the changing room shortly afterwards, making her way over towards one of the nearby desk units, rifling through one of the over-flowing pen holders until she found a large pair of scissors, complete with bright red grips. She opened and closed the blades a few times, before palming them in her hand. They weren't much, but it was better than nothing to defend herself with. She bit her bottom lip anxiously as she glanced around once more, before heading towards the passage that would lead to the stairwell and- more crucially- freedom.

She rounded the corner and quickly slowed to a halt when she saw the figure standing only a few scant feet away from the stairwell door. Just like all the others, he just stood there initially, staring into the distance, moaning lightly. What was worse to her was the fact that she recognised the black jacket the figure wore.

"Billy...?" she asked in a hoarse whisper, and barely a second later, the figure swung around to face her. "Oh no..."

Billy was one of the young interns who had started at the company recently, barely out of college, but he was likable and polite enough, always willing to help out around the office, even with the most mundane tasks, such as carrying boxes of paper up 6 flights of stairs when the elevator was out. And he was pretty nice towards Kelly and the other females in the office as well, always willing to talk about various subjects rather than focus on sexist banter and jibes.

Except now poor Billy was just a shadow of his former self. His eyes had glassed over, almost like white marbles, while one side of his ribcage was exposed, the shiny white surface of the bone glistening among the slick red of his exposed flesh and muscle tissue, where more than one person had eaten away at him. His shirt was dangling free in ragged strips of cloth from around the wound, his pants smeared with deep red as well. He let out a weak groan as he took a shaky step towards Kelly, his jaw hanging loosely, blood smeared around his lips.

Billy was probably one of the nicest people Kelly had ever known, except now he looked a hollow shell of his former self- almost as though Billy Magner's soul and personality had been sucked out of him, leaving some shade wearing his blood-stained skin.

But that would soon be the last thing on Kelly's mind as he suddenly made a stumbling dash towards her, and she let out an abrupt scream at his sudden movement, before he barged into her, and they stumbled back into the wall before tumbling to the ground in a less-than-graceful fashion. She let out another scream as he suddenly lunged down, teeth bared, and she had just enough time to get her hand underneath Billy's chin, pushing him away as his teeth snapped at thin air, a single droplet of blood dripping onto her cheek instead.

He growled and snarled as he tried to lunge in once again, sounding more like an enraged animal than the young intern she used to know, and she shirked once again as he drew in even closer, almost taking a bite out of her fleshy cheek. She managed to turn her face away in time to avoid the attack, but she could still feel him trying to push in closer to tear her throat out, with incredible strength- inhuman, almost.

It took her a few more seconds of staring wide-eyed into her gaping maw to realise that she was still holding the scissors in her right hand, and she tightened her hold around the grip, before making a sharp motion towards his ribs, plunging the blade into his flesh. It sank in without any form of resistance, almost as though she were stabbing a ball of plastecine.

She ripped them out almost as easily, though Billy offered no sign of being hurt, despite the blood which spurted out onto the carpet. She thrust the scissors in twice more, each stab withdrawing even more blood from Billy's cold body, but doing little in knocking him off of her prone form. Realising that a different approach would be needed, she turned the scissors around, so the blades were pointed down towards the floor itself. Billy's mouth drew even closer than the last time.

_I'm sorry Billy-_

And with that, she bought the scissors around towards the side of his head, where they punched through his temple with frightening ease, along with the tearing of muscle and the breaking of bone, lancing his brain.

Billy let out some kind of strangled gurgling noise as his entire body seized up, finally showing some indication of being injured by the attacks from her makeshift weapon. He continued to gurgle for about another second, and then he finally went still, slumping like a discarded marionette, right on top of Kelly. She remained still for a while longer as the implications sank in, and then she finally let off another choked scream, before pushing back with all her might, shoving Billy's corpse off of her. He just rolled to the side without any form of resistance, the motion causing the scissors to slip out from the wound in the side of his head, blood and chunks of some pink fleshy matter falling out as well.

She scuttled backwards against the nearby wall, clutching her hands to her open mouth as she dry sobbed, horrified at what she had just done. Billy had been a good kid at heart, but whatever it was that had gripped all those insane people had turned him into the thing that lay before her, something that would have ripped her throat out in an instant if she had relented just a little-

_This is insane! Why is all this happening? Why is it always-_

The sound of feet shuffling across the carpet prompted her to glance up, in time to see another familiar face round the corner. It was Ruby from the floor below this one, her lower jaw as slack as Billy's had been, her eyes showing the same glazed-over appearance, almost as though she had cataracts, but she knew exactly where Kelly was as she took another step forwards.

Kelly sprung into action as swiftly as she dared, snatching up the scissors (still soaked in Billy's blood) and making a dash towards the stairwell door, crashing through and leaving it swinging open on its hinges, even as Ruby reached out pathetically with one hand towards her former co-worker.

Unfortunatly for Kelly, the horrors in this building wouldn't end there, even as she finally reached the lobby. Almost as soon as she was through the doors, she hopped back and let out another scream as the thing that used to be Derrick Proudfoot reached out for her from his crawling position, his legs and lower torso simply _gone _from below his waist. Behind him came one of the security guards, half the flesh on his skull eaten away.

She tasted bile on the back of her tongue, and that was enough. She turned and almost ran into the waiting arms of Malcolm, one of his eyes gouged out and hanging freely from its socket, swaying back and forth from his bodily motions. Kelly let out another shriek as she stumbled sideways around him, avoiding his outstretched arms, and she sprinted for the doors, slamming through them and outside, the hollow moans chasing her out.

* * *

Frederick Briars of the U.B.C.S was feeling a bit fed up, to say the least.

It hadn't even been 10 hours since they had touched down in Raccoon City, and yet now Delta Platoon had been reduced to less than a single squad. He'd fought through hell in Bosnia, Kosovo and other hell holes, but none of those had matched what he had seen during his tenure in the U.B.C.S. Good men dragged down and eaten alive by twisted former humans, cut apart by razor sharp claws and other viscous weapons, entire squads killed in a heartbeat...

But this was far beyond anything else he had witnessed in his life. Some of the others had called it hell on earth, and he was inclined to agree.

Sergeant Price and his entire fire team, Biel the point man, the snipers- all gone. He still couldn't believe it. It was like a bad nightmare- a highly vivid one, but a nightmare all the same. Seeing the zombies pressing in from all sides, far more than their ammo stocks extended to, had left him permanently on edge, even if everyone else around him seemed to be coping just fine.

There had been the one shred of good fortune though, when Taylor had found a civilian survivor- a police officer, to be exact, which may have explained how he was able to have stayed alive for so long, utilising a S.P.A.S 12 shotgun. And his story had been expected amongst the U.B.C.S survivors: the R.P.D had been practically wiped out to the man in the initial stages of the infection, meaning that he could have very well been the last surviving member of the police force in the entire city. Despite that, his local knowledge had been vital in getting through the city undetected by the larger zombie hordes.

And then they had hit another snag. A rather large one, to be exact. After finding what looked like a shattered transport pod in that parking lot, the apprehension in his gut kept on building, and then _it _had appeared. Whatever it was, it was unlike anything he had ever seen in his career with the U.B.C.S: towering at least eight feet tall, endowed with incredible strength and endurance, and armed with a friggin' _rocket launcher _to boot. Though Benson and Setzer had managed to knock it onto its ass, it had gotten to its feet moments later, killing Benson shortly afterwards- impaling him through the head with a lance-like tendril that had erupted from its forearm.

And so they had ran, though Taylor and their new cop buddy had been cut off from the others by a blazing fire, and the massive creature had gone after them rather than the others. Though Briars hated to be a pessimist, it was highly likely they were as good as dead, considering everything else. If they had managed to elude the creature, then they would have ended up going through Raccoon Zoo...and he hated to think what the T-Virus had done to the animals kept there.

Since then they had been keeping low, staying to the shadows. Raccoon may have been a fairly small city, but its network of close, interconnecting streets and alleyways meant there was still a lot of ground to cover. Nick didn't even have any specific goal in mind, it seemed, just leading them from place to place, trying to find somewhere safe to bed down for a while. But there were no safe havens left, why didn't he realise that?

And to top it all off, they were currently under attack in one of the city's alleyways by a pack of what seemed to be the hellish spawn of a cockroach and a demon, complete with sick limbs bearing sickle-like claws, and sickly green flesh. He unloaded his M4 into the one clambering the wall in front of him, and it fell to the floor, its legs curling in on itself. He dumped the emptied magazine and snapped a fresh one home, realising that he only had a couple left in his vest pockets.

He had made sure he had packed a decent amount of ammo before they had set out from the barracks the day previous, but even his careful preparations had helped little in the face of the chaos which faced them now. Though the squad had spread out enough to let them cover every approach and each other, he still found himself hard pressed to keep the creatures away from himself and the others.

And Lee Myung was nowhere to be seen. Far as Briars knew, he was already dead. That fact wouldn't surprise the blonde-haired man at all.

"Damn it," he cursed, swinging around and setting the iron sights on another grotesque being that clambered out of a partially boarded-up window.

But as it happened, the demolitions expert wasn't too far away, though he wasn't in any position to provide cover against the nightmares scurrying out of the shadows and abandoned buildings. He was currently crouched behind a large dumpster, his lap top laid out before him, showing the live feed from the small webcam he currently held with one hand, aiming it towards the action ahead of him, finding himself striving to try and keep up the sheer speed of the new creatures, as they scaled up and down the bare brick walls at speeds far beyond human capabilities, their wickedly sharp claws easily capable of tearing through skin, flesh and bone.

Though he initially had some reservations about undertaking his supervisor duties, he had fallen into them soon afterwards, becoming somewhat fascinated by what else could be lurking out of view, waiting to strike. He prided himself on knowing the strengths and weaknesses of the previous B.O.W's created by Umbrella- which the U.B.C.S subsequently had to fight against- and the prospect of facing new creatures did excite him somewhat. It began with that massive one-eyed creature they had faced the previous day; the one that had taken incredible punishment without wavering, and had risen to its feet even after being knocked down.

It was a B.O.W none of them recognised, but Devlan had referred to it as the 'Nemesis', citing the whispered stories he had heard back at the home barracks regarding a B.O.W project that rivalled that of the Tyrant series- an ambitious claim indeed. Though of course none of them could have expected it to actually be real.

And as for these bug monsters in front of him: they had a brief taster of them earlier on, when Taylor had gone running off after nearby gunfire he could hear. Lee hadn't seen them himself, but the descriptions had been vivid enough to disturb him, and now seeing them with his own eyes for the first time had sealed the deal for him. He just had to get some footage of these things in action.

He kept the camera trained on one of them as it leapt off of the wall, slashing at Briars with its claws, who hopped back in time and booted it in the face, forcing it backwards a little, before firing his M4 at close range, blowing its head into chunks of skull and flesh. Further along the alleyway, a second was blown from its perch when Devlan filled its torso with three bullet holes.

After a few more seconds, he turned the camera around so he could record his own thoughts on the creatures.

"I'm fairly sure Umbrella's never created things like this before," he noted, his eyes wide with delight. "They resemble the Chimeras developed at the Spencer estate, but these look as though they were born from cockroaches, not flies. This is incredible!" The glee in his voice would be very apparent to whoever watched this video later.

"And it seems as though they feed by draining the blood from their victims…like a mosquito would. It looks as though the virus can infect practically everything it comes into contact with, so chances are we've barely touched the tip of the iceberg with regards to potential B.O.W species."

Close by, Briars unloaded into the torso of yet another creature- at least ten bodies littered the ground, but more continued to crawl out of the woodwork- spraying his pants with more blood. It staggered backwards from the impacts and screeched, before charging straight at him, flailing its remaining arms. Letting his M4 hand loose by its strap, he ripped his handgun free from its holster and unloaded two shots into its disfigured skull, blowing it apart in a spray of green gore. The body's momentum carried it forwards, slamming into him and knocking him to the ground, the handgun flying out of his grasp.

He gasped in shock as the heavy load pressed him against the rough tarmac surface, and could feel the creature's warm vital fluids leaking out of the ruptured corpse and soaking him through and through. He tried to heft it off of him, but it was heavier than he was, and his efforts did little save for dropping it back onto him in a more awkward position.

"Damn it!" he screamed, his voice barely audible over the storm of gunfire and monstrous shrieks all around him. He stretched around for his handgun, but it was way too far out of reach for him to get- he couldn't even brush it with his fingertips. He heard another shriek and looked about to see it towering over him, drool dripping from its sharp mandibles, his own terrified reflection staring back at him from its silvery eyes.

"Shit," he cursed flatly, raising an arm high to defend himself from the inevitable deathblow-

-that never came, when he heard the rattle of an M4 rifle, and then the monster stumbled backwards, blood spraying from the recently-opened wounds on its body, until its head erupted and then it slammed to the floor with a wet smack sound. Briars continued to stare towards it for a few more moments, before he saw a gloved hand reach down and prise the corpse pinning him to the ground away slightly, giving him the space to use his own arms to push it off of him fully.

After a brief period retrieving his handgun and wiping some green slime off of his M4, he finally saw who it was who had saved him, and he felt his anger return to him.

"And where the hell where you, eh?" he yelled at Lee Myung, who just adopted a crouched aiming stance and opened fire upon a creature trying to drop onto Devlan's head.

"Had some trouble of my own," replied the demolitions man, indicating a pair of ruptured corpses behind him- both zombie and bug monster. "Sorry that I didn't have your back," he then added, and in response Briars just turned away and sighted down the barrel of his M4.

"I'll let you off this time then," he replied, just as he heard Nick yell a curt order. He and the others were covered in a slick layer of green blood and other unmentionable fluids.

"Let's go! Now!" he barked, slapping a fresh magazine home into his M4. "Lee! Drop some grenades into that building, burn their nest to a crisp!"

"Will do!" called the Asian man back, as he and Briars began to jog forwards to regroup with the others, hearing the piercing screams and the steady clicking of claws upon brick and other materials as the creatures closed in from nearby. It seemed they had built a 'nest' of sorts in the building directly beside them- why else would so many of them come crawling out of the exact same place?

As the two of them passed underneath one of the smashed windows, Lee unclipped a pair of grenades from his vest and pulled the pins, dropping them through the window with an over arm motion, while the others continued to move on, keeping their comrades well covered. The clicking of talons drew closer and closer, building in tandem with the maddened shrieks of the creatures.

A few seconds later, there was a deep rumble as the grenades went off, blowing out a few more windows on the top floor of the building, sending glass, wooden debris, and chunks of green flesh flying out of the windows, though by then the U.B.C.S survivors were already on their way towards the nearest safe point- if there were any left, that was.

* * *

Kelly skirted around an abandoned car, its trunk left wide open and devoid of any sign of human life. Its front doors had been left open too, the keys still in the ignition and the headlamps left on. Though she wanted to take a closer look, the blood splattered across the driver's seat and window compelled her not to.

She was just outside of the Wallmart that was around 2 blocks away from her workplace, and it looked as dead and desolate as the building had on her journey out. Several cars had been abandoned on the spot, doors left wide open, most of them with the engines still running and all the lights on, small personal items such as handbags and wallets left lying around as well- clearly abandoned while. Raccoon had been reduced to a ghost town over the course of half a day- whereas before these streets were always bustling with people, it was now totally abandoned.

But what unnerved her the most was the lack of bodies. Sure there was the odd splash of blood here and there, but no bodies. There was nothing to indicate that they had been dragged anywhere, but after what she had seen in the office, had they just gotten up and walked away? Billy had been standing on his feet when he had lunged at her and tried to tear her throat out, though considering the state he had been in, he shouldn't have still been alive.

It was clear that this had something to do with the cannibal murders from over the last few months, but on a much, much bigger scale. Even the logical side of her brain couldn't wrap itself around what was happening right in front of her. It was like something out of her worst nightmares, but vivid enough to be real. Hell, it _was_ real. The blood on her clothes and face- from Billy- was real enough.

Though there may not have been any cannibals in the immediate area, she could still hear the faint moans of those that lingered somewhere close by. Mixed in with the howl of the wind blowing through the abandoned streets, it gave a somewhat foreboding atmosphere. She looked behind her at the way she had come, but saw nothing else of interest, save for shattered store fronts and abandoned vehicles. There was no point in going back, so she turned back and headed towards the front doors of the store.

She peered through the glass, fingers tightening around the grip of the scissors she held. She couldn't discern anyone inside, though she could see where a lot of stock had been knocked off of the shelves, left scattered across the recently-shined flooring. But much like outside, there were no bodies, no blood, so sign of death or decay that she had already come to attribute to these cannibals.

She inched closer towards the automatic doors, and watched silently as they suddenly opened of their own accord, giving her easy entry into the store. She stood at the threshold, just watching. Every time in the past there would be someone here to greet her, without fail. Now there wasn't anyone else, though at the far side of the aisle directly in front of her she saw an abandoned shopping cart almost filled to the top, just standing there idly. A few cans of tinned food were left lying on the floor just beside the cart.

She remained standing in the doorway for a few more seconds, before taking tentative steps forward, checking for any signs of a threat. But as she glanced down each aisle, they were completely bare of any sign of life- friendly or otherwise. She swallowed slightly and moved on, peering over towards the registers. She stopped cold when she saw someone's feet peeking out from behind the edge of the counter, deathly still.

_Oh no..._

She began to move forward to examine the scene more closely, but then she discerned something out the corner of her eye, and turned as quickly as she dared in time to see a sight she never expected to see at the moment.

Outside on the street, a police cruiser trundled past, almost as though it was just on a routine patrol of the city. She watched it continue on for a few more yards, until it was almost out of sight. And then she finally kicked into gear again, running back out the way she had come, out the sliding doors, not even noticing the lone tin of beans which slowly rolled out of one of the aisles and came to a rest out in the centre of the floor.

"Hey! Over here!" she cried, waving her arms frantically, as the police cruiser casually vanished around the corner of a neighbouring building, and she lowered her arms as she felt her heart drop into the pit of her stomach. Part of her wondered if it was all just some cruel vision she had been subjected to, her mind broken by the horrors she had been forced to watch.

But then she heard the screech of tires on the tarmac, and she looked around in time to see the cruiser come reversing back into view at high speed, before it swung around so that it was facing towards her, before she heard the parking brake being applied, and she finally saw the two figures sat in the front, their exact features disguised through the windshield.

_Yes! Things are starting to look up-_

Though her thoughts were soon cut off when the doors popped open and the two men inside clambered out, dressed in the uniform of the R.P.D, the driver wearing the familiar peaked cap of the force too. But what was more attention-grabbing was the fact that both of them were carrying guns- and both of them were aimed right at Kelly at that very moment.

"Drop the scissors!" the passenger barked, a man with short brown hair, wielding what looked like a machine gun, his face smeared with dirt, blood and sweat. His companion meanwhile was aiming a pistol towards her, his blonde hair concealed beneath his cap, his blue eyes wide with a frantic energy.

"Hey, I'm not one of those people!" she called out, trying to reason with them.

"Shut up!" the officer with the machine gun screamed. "Drop the scissors, or I swear to God I'll ventilate you where you stand!"

Seeing that she didn't really have much of a choice, Kelly slowly stooped down, laying her scissors down on the tarmac, making sure to maintain eye contact with the man in question, who was constantly thrusting his machine gun towards her, looking on the verge of snapping completely.

"You hurt?" he then barked, loudly. "You scratched or bitten? You got a lot of blood on you!"

"No, I haven't"-

"Don't fucking lie to me!" he screamed harshly, causing her to flinch. "I swear if you're lying to me, I'll blow your fucking head off your shoulders!"

"Gray, that's enough!"

Suddenly the other officer wearing the peaked cap (who had so far remained totally silent throughout this entire meeting), had suddenly stepped in front of his partner and batted his gun away, staring him down and pointing a finger into the centre of his chest.

"Knock it off!" he growled angrily, sounding low on patience. "We've been through enough shit already, and we don't need you adding to that by gunning down every single person we come across, treating them like those damned monsters!" His fellow officer continued to glare at him for a few more moments, and then finally turned away.

The blonde officer turned away too, shaking his head slowly, before approaching Kelly slowly, being sure to put his pistol away to show that he meant no harm. He then held his arms out either side as a further showing of non-threatening. "Look, I'm sorry about him, he's been through...a lot. We all have." She cast a quick glance over towards the other officer, who just stood facing away, running a hand through his hair.

"I can imagine," she sighed, before the man readjusted his cap and offered a weak smile.

"What's your name, miss?"

"K-Kelly," she said after a moment's hesitation. "Kelly Preston."

"Well, Miss Preston, you're pretty lucky to have survived this long," he said, before holding a hand to his chest. "I'm Officer Davian, but you can call me Max. And this is Grayson, but everyone calls him Gray." He thumbed back towards his partner, who was looking around frantically now, his machine gun nosing in every direction imaginable.

"Yeah, nice to meet you," he said after a few moments, "now how about we get the hell out of here before anymore of them show up?" He went back to looking about shortly after that.

"So anyway, what's your story?" asked Max, turning back towards Kelly. She lowered her gaze somewhat, trying to find the best way to relate her story of how she hadn't joined her co-workers in death.

"Well...I work at the stationary company not too far away from here," she began, "and one minute it was business as usual, and the next thing I know there are these crazy people coming in through the front doors and killing everyone they could reach. I was able to lock myself in the supply closet...until not too long ago."

"Well you might have been better off staying inside," replied Max, shaking his head. "Yesterday it was just another day, and then next thing we knew these bastards were pouring out of everywhere, killing anyone they could get their hands on- men, women children..."

"My God," was all Kelly whispered in response.

"This is nothing to do with those cannibal murders from a few months ago," Max added, shaking his head. "This is something else...something on another level. It's almost like a scene from a Biohazard movie," he finished, causing Kelly to blink. She knew little about that movie series save for the fact that it involved an outbreak of a man-made virus that turned people into ravenous monsters. It seemed too similar to what had transpired in the city now, but that was impossible to imagine any truth in that scenario- this wasn't a movie after all.

"Well, we can sit around and talk about this all day," said Gray suddenly, pushing back into the scene with his manic eyes looking set to burst out of his skull at any moment, "but right now, I would like to get out of here!"

"OK Gray, we'll head out in a minute," replied Max, maintaining his composure, while Gray looked set to explode at any minute. The brown-haired officer turned away, before he noticed Kelly watching him cautiously.

"The fuck are you looking at?" he screamed suddenly, making her flinch, before walking around the side of the police cruiser they had originally arrived in, muttering something under his breath, before kicking the tires harshly.

"Don't hold it against him," whispered Max once he was out of earshot. "He saw a few of his good friends get killed over the last day and a half...Couldn't do anything about it either."

"So...what happens now then?" she asked. "What about any other officers? What about anyone left from city hall?" When she received nothing but a rather downtrodden look from Max in response, she pushed further. "There has to be _someone _left over that's in power! There just has to be!"

"I'm sorry," Max said quietly, "but we were at a barricade in the Cider District, trying to hold them off...but there wasn't a damned thing we could do to stop them coming. We barely got out of there ourselves. And we've spent the last day looking around all of the shelters in the city- they've all been overrun."

"And besides," said Gray, breaking his silence, "City Hall's been overrun as well. Who knows where the Mayor is- he's probably dead just like all the others too."

"But...that can't be possible"-

"Well it is!" he screamed suddenly, getting right into her face, making her flinch visibly. "While you were hidden away in your cosy little cupboard, we were getting massacred left and right! You have no idea, no _fucking _idea what we've been through out there, up to our knees in blood, and guts, and body parts! You ignorant little"-

"That's enough Gray!" barked Max, suddenly stepping in front of his partner and pushing him backwards. "Yelling at her will not help anyone!" he then added, as Kelly backed away slowly, wary of Gray snapping completely. The fact that he was holding a gun didn't make her feel much better either.

After a few more tense moments, Gray finally scoffed loudly and turned away, muttering something under his breath. Kelly averted her gaze for a few seconds, just in case he took exception to being stared at. Frankly, she was considering turning and running like hell then and there, away from this unstable man with a very itchy trigger finger.

"I'm sorry," said Max as he turned back. "I swear, he's not normally this...outspoken. But you need to try and understand, what we've seen, what we've been through...shouldn't have been seen by any man." Kelly was about to open her mouth to say something else, when Grayson was suddenly right in front of them again, shoving her aside forcefully and raising his weapon to bear. She hit the ground roughly, scraping her exposed forearm against the tarmac.

"Heads up! More of those fucking gutbags coming this way!" he barked harshly, before pulling the trigger, the weapon burping in response as it spat out a three-round burst of gunfire.

The bullets punched through the face of a Walmart employee with his face wasting away, reducing what was left to a bloody mess. He hit the ground hard shortly afterwards without another sound. Behind him came at least another eight people, all in a similar condition, all dressed differently and of a wide range of gender, age and race. They advanced from the direction of the opened store doors, drawn out by the commotion from before.

"Oh fuck!" cursed Max as he raised his own weapon and fired off a few shots, the sharp retorts providing a contrast to the sustained rattle of Gray's machine gun, though each sudden sound still forced Kelly to clamp her hands over her ears, screwing her eyes shut as the shots felt as though they were trying to burrow their way into her skull. Though she had heard the gunfire from her hiding spot the day prior, those sounds had been far away and muted by the walls surrounding her. Hearing it close up was a whole new experience- one that she wasn't enjoying so far.

Three of the insane people lay on the tarmac now, their heads busted open like ripe watermelons and leaking blood, chunks of brain tissue, and other fluids that she didn't bear to think about. The others continued to close in, not concerning themselves with the fact that they were either missing limbs or showed signs of recent injury, either from blades or guns- the blood still dripping from the wounds and leaving a trail behind them as they shambled forwards.

_Why? Why are they still walking after taking all that damage?_

"Come on, come on!" yelled Grayson as he dumped the empty clip from his weapon and reached for a new one somewhere at the back of his waistband. Most of the lunatics that had appeared from the store were dead on the ground now, although plenty more of them were beginning to close in from the surrounding streets and junctions, no doubt drawn out by the gunfire and Grayson's frantic shouting and screaming. Kelly could only guess at how many more were just lurking out of view, ready to strike when they least expected it.

"Heads up!" yelled Max suddenly, "here come a couple of those red bastards!"

Kelly followed his gaze towards the Walmart once more, where two more figures came into view suddenly, racing towards the small group at high speed. When they came closer Kelly saw they looked as though they were covered from head to toe in blood, but looking closer she now saw that their skin was in fact a deep crimson colouration, their eyes burning fiercely inside their skulls, finger digits replaced by what looked like claws.

Gray turned and shot one of them in the sternum a few times, the blood-skinned figure stumbling somewhat from the impacts, but not falling. The second one received a shot to the shoulder and its arm was forced back, but it continued its forward charge, growling and snarling like a rabid beast.

"Stay back!" yelled Max as he suddenly put himself in front of Kelly, shielding her from the first monster as it closed the final 10 yards in an instant and made a grab for her. He aimed his weapon into the figure's face and pulled the trigger, the sudden retort causing Kelly to let out an involuntary scream as the thing's head snapped back, the momentum of its forward charge letting it fall to the ground in a mangled heap.

But he was too slow to take out the second one as it lunged close behind, its claws cutting through his shirt and his Kevlar vest with ease, throwing up a small cloud of blood as it continued on, barging into him and knocking him backwards onto the hood of the police cruiser, knocking Kelly onto her rear once again. The creature was still growling like a rabid beast as it lunged forward towards Max's face, claws digging into the flesh on his torso.

Gray's machine gun fired in response, making the creature flinch and withdraw from its current position, before he shot it once more, the back of its skull collapsing like a wet paper cup, and letting it fall to the tarmac without another sound. Kelly scuttled away further on her back, though she stopped when she realised that Gray hadn't bothered to ask if Max was OK.

Instead he was glaring towards his partner, who remained sprawled across the cruiser's hood, clutching a hand to his right cheek, his face slashed with fear and uncertainty. Kelly slowly rose to her feet, so she could see the scene in its entirety.

Now she could see the blood that seeped from underneath his clenched fingers, see clearly the gleaming red wounds that had been carved into his flesh by the clawed fingers of the red-skinned creatures, staining his shirt and his pants. But he didn't show any sign of feeling the pain, as he continued to stare towards Gray's set face.

"Grayson," he said, quietly, his hand finally moving away to show the faint but unmistakable signs of a bite wound. "Don't...for God's sake don't...It's just a scratch, just a scratch. I swear...I feel fine, I feel absolutely fine!" His words were becoming more rushed and hysteric as he continued.

"Sorry, but you know what happened to the others," was all Grayson said, shaking his head.

"For fuck's sake man!" seethed Max suddenly, almost looking as though he were trying to grind his teeth together. "I feel fine! Don't even think of treating me like I'm one of those freaks!"

"Sorry, but I'm not taking any chances," replied Gray in a cold manner.

And then he pulled the trigger.

Kelly let out another shriek as Max's body shuddered, blood erupting from his face, before his limp body rolled off onto the ground, joining the other broken corpses in death. She stared down at him for a while longer, and then finally glanced up at Gray, whose face remained stony as he stared impassively down at the body of his partner for a while longer, and then he turned to face her, his face retaining the same expression.

"Don't give me that damn look," he spat harshly. "He'd been scratched. We both knew fine well what would happen if you get scratched or bitten- I didn't have a choice!"

He took a step forwards, and she scuttled backwards on her hands, her expression remaining fearful.

"Don't!" he warned, his face now being crossed with a hard frown. At that she flinched again, before her fear overtook her fully, and she scrambled onto her feet, fleeing in the opposite direction as fast as she could manage.

"Dammit, wait!" Gray yelled, running after her, but Kelly showed no signs of giving him any grace.

Her fear and her adrenaline had already been sent pretty high during her dash from the building not too long ago, it had peaked with what she had just witnessed: instead of trying to help his partner, a police officer had just shot him in the face at point blank range. And she thought she would be safe with someone in law enforcement. Clearly not, especially considering how unhinged his behaviour had been in general.

And now she was fleeing from him as fast as she could manage, crossing the street and heading towards who knew where. Ahead of her, more of the crazy people closed in slowly but implacably, while Grayson yelled at her from behind.

"Get back here, _bitch!"_

The nasty emphasis on that last word compelled her to run faster. As did the realisation that she no longer had any means of defence on her person.

She headed straight for an alleyway dead ahead, skirting around a woman that was wearing only a soiled red dress, her feet and lower legs caked in dried blood and other filth. She could hear Grayson's feet coming up behind her, but she kept herself moving forwards, her heart thundering on overtime. She entered the alleyway and kept on going towards a door she could see in the near distance, praying that it would be unlocked-

-but all of those plans faded in an instant when she felt a heavy weight slam into her from behind, throwing her against the wall and forcing out a scream. A moment later, Grayson's hand clamped around her jaw tightly, and she glared straight into his brown eyes, that shone with nothing but murderous thoughts.

"I told you...not to run..." he whispered, his voice low and deadly, forcing out each word through gritted teeth. "You know...doesn't matter if you've been bitten or not"-

He suddenly drew his pistol, and pulled back the hammer, chambering a round. Kelly let off a whimper, tears gathering in her eyes.

"-but the way I see it, we're all going to be fucked sooner or later. So I've decided I'll help the process along a little, do my part, y'know?" He leaned in close until he was practically in her face, his hot breath washing over her face, a leering smile starting to spread across his features.

"Don't worry," he crooned, pushing the barrel of the pistol against her cheek. "It's only last an instant."

Kelly had heard enough.

Letting out a scream, she raised her leg and kneed Grayson in the groin, forcing him to exhale a loud of air from his mouth and release his hold on her somewhat. She then dug her fingernails into his fleshy cheek and dragged them down his face.

"AHHHH!"

He screamed and stumbled back, clutching a hand to his bloody face, as she turned and made a run for the door once again, only a few yards away.

"You fucking bitch!" he screamed behind her, staggering after her, raising his pistol and preparing himself to pull the trigger. Kelly had reached the door and grabbed at the lock, jostling it in her sweaty palms.

It was locked.

"No!" she yelled, part in frustration and part in despair, when she saw Grayson closing in on her from the side. She turned and tried to run again, but her foot caught on something and she tumbled to the floor, scraping her arms once again on both the tarmac and some shards of broken glass. She looked up to see Grayson towering over her, lips twisted into a murderous sneer, blood streaming from the nail cuts on his flesh.

"Fucking bitch. Maybe I'll shoot your joints out first."

He raised the pistol and aimed at her shoulder.

_Crash!_

The door suddenly crashed open from the inside, and a large man with a bulbous, whale-like gut shambled out, ramming into Grayson and almost knocking him off his feet. The two of them wrestled with one another for a while, ending when Grayson let out a cry of pain and rammed his pistol into the large man's eye, blowing his brains out the back of his skull and dropping him onto his back.

Grayson fell back against the opposite wall, cupping a hand to his right forearm, where blood was bubbling out from underneath his fingers. Kelly didn't even need to guess what had happened to him. He'd been bitten.

"God-damn it," he cursed, glaring towards her for an instant and then turning away, muttering a few more curses through his gritted teeth. "Fucking A!" he then added, looking back towards her.

"You see? You see what happens when you go running off like that, you stupid bitch!" he then screamed, returning to his manic persona. "You see? Now I'm fucked no matter what I do!" he ranted, before stopping himself, taking a few breaths to remain calm. After a few more moments of Kelly watching him cautiously, he suddenly straightened up and looked dead at her.

"Well then I'll just say one more thing. I want you to know that whatever happens in the future, you'll always have my face engraved into your brain whenever you close your eyes."

And with that, he raised the pistol to his head, put the barrel into his mouth, and fired.

BANG!

Kelly flinched from the sudden noise, and a moment later Grayson's body hit the cold tarmac hard, blood pooling out of the massive hole in the back of his skull. She stared straight into the widening pool of red and pink fluid, mixed in with pieces of spongy material that must have been what was left of his brain.

Everything went out of focus, even as she turned away, retching and coughing as her stomach did a triple somersault again and again.

The next few minutes were a blur. Pained moaning, a blurry figure approaching, towering over her. Footsteps approaching rapidly, the sound of something whistling through the air, and a meaty sound as something heavy made contact with soft tissue. A moment later, a body hit the ground next to her, its head hanging off by a few strands of flesh and muscle.

"That's no way to treat a lady."

The voice wasn't familiar, and the context of the statement was so out of place, just like everything else. A second later, she felt a pair of hands raise her up gently, guiding her away, further down the alleyway, up a set of cold, steel steps, and towards some semblance of safety. The hollow moans faded away, replaced by a voice whispering reassurances in her ear, saying it would be OK.

Then all of a sudden she remembered Grayson leering over her, hot breath washing over her face, threatening to blow her brains.

Then she was struggling for freedom, beating at someone's chest with her bare hands, nails raking at clothes, trying to tear at bare flesh, screaming and shrieking in a mad effort to get free.

"Stop it! I'm trying to help!"

"No, get off me! Leave me alone!"

"That's enough!" yelled the mystery voice again, and then a pair of hands took hold of her by the wrists, restraining her gently. She was finally forced to look into the face of her saviour, and she saw a dark haired man in his thirties, with a well-trimmed beard. He was wearing a fine blue dress suit over a white dress shirt, the clothes tattered and frayed in places, also marked with splotches and stains of blood.

She continued to stare into those eyes, until he released his hold on her wrists.

"You're safe now," he assured her.

That was it for her. Her defences finally broken down by everything she had witnessed in her journey to this point, she allowed herself to break down, tears streaming from her eyes as she buried her head in the centre of his chest, pained sobs wracking her entire body. After a few more moments, she felt a hand on the back of her head, just remaining there.

"It's OK," he whispered. "It's OK."

* * *

Jessop stumbled along the narrow trail, the pain in his head and ribs returning to him once again, the painkillers beginning to wear off. He grunted in pain, before he fell back against a nearby tree, allowing himself a moment of rest as he reached inside his pockets, searching for the spare pills he had bought with him before he passed out.

He palmed a couple of the capsules in his hand before swallowing them down like M 'n' M's. The pain faded away once again, though he worried how much longer he would be trudging through the undergrowth, swallowing down a couple of capsules every few hours- would be keel over from fatigue and his injuries sooner or later, or would he keel over from an overdose? Neither option seemed very reassuring, out in the middle of the forest.

But he had to keep going, had to find the others and try to restore some semblance of order. He still had his duty to uphold.

He had been following their passage for the last few hours or so, looking for fresh footprints in the spoil, broken twigs and other bracken at ground level, torn fragments of clothing on dry twigs, and anything else he could think of- the same tricks and tips he had been taught years back by his father and uncle. Sure, the others may have had a significant head start on him, but he guessed they would be slowed down in their passage through the trees and thick bracken, giving him the chance to catch up.

_And they have to stop and rest sometime._

He continued along the trail, which suddenly opened out into a small grassy clearing, about 30 feet in diameter and featuring little of interest, save for a lone tree in the centre- and a few abandoned sleeping bags.

Jessop approached the small campsite cautiously, making sure that his revolver was close at hand. After what he had witnessed outside the prison walls, he wasn't taking any more chances. He was within a few feet of the bags now, one red and one blue, empty of any human occupation or otherwise. He then moved right up to the nearest bag and used his boot to nudge the covers aside-

It was completely empty.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he repeated the process with the second bag, turning up nothing once again. He stepped backwards, lowering his weapon and sighing. Aside from these sleeping bags there was no other sign of human life in this clearing- no tents, no sign of a fire- hell, not even any sign of recent litter. It was enough to make him more than a little unnerved, especially considering that he hadn't heard any other sign of life since he had first awoken from the crash- no insects, no birds calling (though he could hear the occasional caw as crows circled overhead).

The forest was dead, literally and figuratively. It was almost as if the disaster engulfing the city had prompted the wildlife to flee, fearing for their own lives. He didn't blame them- if he himself had known what was going to happen, he would have skipped town in a heartbeat.

No use worrying about that now though, he thought, as he made his way towards the path on the opposite side of the clearing now, hoping to pick up the trail of his companions once again. Somewhere behind him, he heard the faint caws of a flock of crows taking flight. A short while after that, he heard a few dull thuds from somewhere far behind.

* * *

"Get out of the fucking way, scum!"

The crows took flight as Frederick Doyle waved his arms frantically, scaring them away into flight, though they circled above his head a few times before finally vanishing from sight. He watched them go for a few moments longer, before finally looking back down onto the dirt path he had been following since escaping the prison.

The crows had been gathering around what looked like the remains of a butcher's inventory- chunks of unidentifiable meat littered here and there in the tall grass, along with strips of skin all covered in a thick carpet of blood. He couldn't tell exactly what it was meant to be, or where it had come from exactly, but all he knew was that it stunk to high heaven, assaulting his senses, making his eyes water.

Perhaps he was better off staying back at the prison, but he brushed that thought aside quickly, knowing that he would have died if he had stood his ground back there- died alongside the warden and the others. This was the better choice, even if he was exhausted, stuck in the middle of nowhere, and had no compass or other means of finding his way.

So, in short, he was pretty much screwed.

"Damn it," he muttered to himself, somewhat shakily, "damn it all to hell and back!" He walked forward, picking his way through the grass carefully, being sure not to tread in any of the fleshy chunks at his feet. He knew that following the trail would lead him towards some form of civilisation sooner or later, though he had been walking for at least a couple of hours now, with still no end in sight.

"I don't deserve to go through this shit," he muttered, stepping around a particularly large hunk of flayed meat. Looking at it reminded him briefly of the crazies that had poured into the prison, dragging down everyone in their path, eating them alive as though they were at an all you could eat buffet. He felt the bile rising in his stomach as he remembered the scene of Plainview falling to the ground; his face and throat eaten away by acidic vomit spewed all over him.

_Hope I don't go the same way-_

Though his thoughts would soon be interrupted, as he heard the brief fluttering of feathers from somewhere behind him, and then he heard a caw just as something sharp sliced into the flesh on the back of his skull.

"Ah!" he cried, turning and flailing his arms, scaring away a crow that had come back for seconds and had decided to go after the much larger human currently walking around.

"You son of a"- growled Doyle, as he swung his shotgun around towards the bird, which was still flying somewhat low as it circled around the path's clearing, looking to dive in once again.

BOOM!

The thunderous retort of his pump-action screamed through the relative silence of the forest, causing the crow to let out a startled squawk as it faltered in mid-air, trying to wheel about to head in a different direction. The buckshot missed it entirely, chipping through the undergrowth behind it instead. But Doyle wasn't finished as he fired again, missing the damn bird and stripping away the bark from a tree behind it instead.

"Fucking bird!" he yelled as he fired a third round, this time hitting the crow dead on and causing it to erupt into a spray of feathers and chunks of flesh. The sight might have been somewhat comical, were it not for the fact that he was pretty pissed off right now.

"Damn...damn it," he sighed, stumbling a little as he tried to remain on his feet, the fatigue starting to catch up with him more than ever. He wiped a hand across the back of his head, staring at the smear of blood he could see. Not a particularly fatal wound, more like a deliberating one, but still it could cause problems if it wasn't treated properly- he remembered how one of his old cellmates had taken a large gash to his arm from a shiv and didn't tell the guards about it- a few hours later, the poor guy's wound had gone septic and he ended up in the infirmary for two weeks.

"Fat chance of good help out here," he muttered to himself, before making his way down the path once more, heading towards a destination that he had no clue about. Little did he know that minor wound would come back to trouble him in the near future.

* * *

"And what damage has been done to the city's infrastructure?"

"We've been unable to contact the R.P.D, or any of the other emergency services based within the city, so either most of the power lines are down, or there's nobody left to answer our requests. And the few patrols we've deployed into the city have reported that many of the main avenues have been blocked off by fire damage or traffic pile ups..."

The words seemed to go over Greene's head, as he remained rooted to the spot, mulling everything over in his head. He'd been contacted by one of Umbrella's main directors, but for what purpose exactly? The directors all claimed that they had Raccoon City's best interests in mind, but he couldn't help but pick up on the contempt behind the words of some of them: in particular Lindeman and Spencer himself, almost as if it was all a minor inconvenience to them.

_I never liked those big corporate types...maybe I had a good reason to._

"Lieutenant, do you really believe those patrols are justifiable in light of the current circumstances?" asked one of the other directors off screen.

"I find them perfectly justifiable," replied Fletcher with measured firmness, keeping his hands clasped on the table in front of him. "We've managed to extract civilians from the city with each pass, and we're confident we can enjoy further successes in the same field. The way I see it, sirs, is that I'm not going to just leave those people to their fates: I'll do whatever's necessary to bring them out in one piece."

"But surely you wouldn't want to risk exposing your own men to the waste spillage?" replied the director. Fletcher opened his mouth to say something else.

"That's enough, Ramsay," said Spencer flatly. There was a moment of consternation off screen, and then the man in question was silent once more. "Lieutenant, I commend your actions in that regard, and the Board has no compunctions of your on-going extraction patrols into the city. Isn't that right gentlemen?" he then asked, looking on either side of him.

Utter silence greeted him in response. Despite his advanced age and withered frame, he still held a tremendous amount of power it seemed. The other directors hung on his every word, whether it was through respect, or fear.

"Speaking of that, sirs," said Major Pullman, looking over a report on the table in front of him, "my men, and men from the other regiments aiding with the relief and quarantine efforts, have relayed some...uh, disturbing reports from what's happening inside the city."

"Disturbing in what respect?" asked a Russian-accented voice off-screen. Though the other military officers knew fine well what Pullman was referring to.

"Well, they say that there's still a lot of Raccoon's citizens wandering the streets," began Pullman, choosing his words carefully. "Walking around as though in a trance, not responding to one another- and attacking all of a sudden"-

"That's likely a side effect from the waste spillage," replied a female voice out of view, holding a trace of French accent. Lieutenant Fletcher shook his head slowly.

"I'm sorry, but I find that highly debateable," he stated plainly. "So far we've seen no evidence of a toxic waste spillage inside the city, and considering that the nearest waste disposal facility is nearly a hundred miles outside of Raccoon City"-

"What are you getting at, Lieutenant?" asked Lindeman suddenly. Fletcher paused for a moment to gather himself before continuing.

"And then you all call us here to ask for an update on the situation, but if I'm being honest, I can't help but feel as though you're trying to sweep something under the carpet."

"That's enough, Lieutenant!" snapped Colonel Adams forcefully, which caused a deafening silence to descend upon the tent. The other officers glanced back and forth between one another, unsure if they should have said something or maintain their silence. Even the board room on the other side of the screen, inhabited by Umbrella's most powerful figures, remained deathly silent.

Until that silence was broken by a light chuckle from the speakers surrounding the seated officers. "Come on Lieutenant, I highly doubted that a man of your integrity believed in crackpot conspiracy theories."

That remark prompted a couple more chuckles form the other end of the conference video, but Fletcher didn't pick up on the joke, as he promptly shuffled his papers together, closed the file, and rose to his feet.

"Lieutenant, where do you think you're going?" asked Colonel Adams in a prickly tone. "All of your fellow officers have taken the time to be here at this time, to discuss these important matters. What's different in your case?" Corporal Greene looked up expectantly at his superior, waiting to see what his next move would be.

"Well Colonel, no disrespect towards either yourself, or our gracious guests," he said diplomatically, indicating towards the conference screen, towards the silhouettes of Spencer and the other directors, "but I have more pressing matters to attend to. Like the people still stranded in Raccoon City."

And with that, he turned and walked away, briefly pausing to call Greene after him. "Come on Corporal, we've got work to do." With that, Corporal Greene quickly gathered his own papers up and hurried after his superior, after giving the other officers assembled a quick glance. Once they had both disappeared through the tent flaps, Adams gave an annoyed sigh.

_Guess I'll need to deal with Fletcher later..._

"Uh sir, what now?" asked Greene as he hurried after Lieutenant Fletcher, rapidly heading towards a transport humvee in the near distance. It was clear that he wasn't in a very good mood at the moment.

"What's wrong Corporal? Don't you believe in these crackpot conspiracy theories?" asked Fletcher instead as he slowed his pace. Greene didn't say anything in response. "Never mind that," he then said, "but this doesn't sit right with me at all. They seem to be very eager to write this all off as a standard 'waste spillage', but I think Corporal Parkman would eagerly say otherwise."

"Well the directors of Umbrella haven't set foot in the city, we have," said Greene. "It's pretty clear they would jump to conclusions."

"Well whatever they think, I'm sure Colonel Adams is going to come down on me sooner or later," replied Fletcher, "and before then I want to try and figure out exactly what we're dealing with. There could still be people stranded in the city that need our help."

"Of course," nodded Greene, pre-empting what Fletcher was about to ask him about. "I'll make sure that Parkman's ready for any future patrols. Every little helps, right?"

"Good man," nodded Fletcher, turning and walking away once more, though Greene's thoughts turned back towards his connection with Daniel Lindeman, New York director. That fact proved Umbrella was up to no good, though he couldn't exactly speak up about it without implicating himself- he was fairly sure he had already effectively betrayed his comrades by agreeing to act as a go-between.

_This has to remain secret. This is my burden, not theirs._

**A/N: Phew. Sorry after the mega-long update between updates for this fic, but I guess that I just ended up running into a brick wall when it came to trying to think of situations and set-pieces to have in this chapter. Chapter still feels a little pedestrian in my opinion though.**

**I've been working on other fics for Dead Space as well, as I recently played through and completed Dead Space- cool game, better and longer than the first one, and its got plenty of cool moments in it. Not as scary as the original was, but it's based a lot more around intense combat and fightingt off aliens coming from every direction, which isn't really a bad thing. And the Severed DLC was pretty cool too, and with a shocking ending (that I won't spoil). **

**Anyway, for the upcoming chapters, some old characters return and we'll have a few large-scale fights thrown into the mix as well, so hopefully the next couple of chapters should be a bit more exciting to read (and for me to write). Until then, R & R as normal please. **


	11. Something to Die For

Chapter 11: Something to Die For

**September 27****th**** 1542 hours**

On the outskirts of Raccoon City's downtown region, nearly thirty bodies littered the tarmac leading towards an overpass bridge about 300 yards away. All of the corpses showed signs of having fallen victim to the unnatural plague which had ravaged the streets, as well as evidence of having been shot through the head, many of them looking as though a sledgehammer had been taken to their skulls, blood and brain matter pooling in fetid puddles all across the street.

From around the corner of a store at the side of the road, another zombie shambled out into view, this one being a fairly tall woman with red hair, her black jeans badly ripped and her blue shirt sodden through with blood, bile and other fluids. Her jaw hung slackly, in danger of dropping off completely. She began to walk along the tarmac, her steps uneven, and she stumbled more than once in trying to step over the fallen bodies.

The thing that had gotten her attention happened to be the bright blazing lights that emanated from the overpass ahead- as had the loud cracking sounds from beforehand, clear evidence of fresh meat in these accursed Necropolis.

CRACK!

The high-sounded retort of a sniper rifle was heard, and then the women's head exploded into a cloud of blood and stinking gore, her body dropping amongst the others a few moments later. Loud whooping was heard a short while later.

"I got another one!"

"Good work son!" cried another voice, and the sound of laughter and high-fiving could be heard from the direction of the overpass, where two pairs of powerful free-standing floodlights could be seen, casting their glare down the road.

On top of the bridge three figures had gathered, all dressed in the clothing of outdoorsmen, including jeans, hiking boots and orange reflective hunter vests. Each of them carried a Sako S75 bolt action rifle, a large crate of spare ammunition laid out at their feet.

"So what does that make the tally now?" asked the man who had made the killing shot, a well-built figure in his early thirties, with dark brown hair and a five-o-clock shadow.

"Well that makes 12 for you now, son," replied the man's father, a figure in his late fifties wearing a black plaid shirt and a red cap that shielded his green eyes from the afternoon sun. He held a small chalkboard and a piece of white chalk, etching another white line next to the name 'Samson'. "But that means you still have a long ways to go to beat my record, son," he then added, pointing to the 20 tally lines beside the name 'Harry'. And at the very bottom, only four lines were etched next to the final name, 'Ruben'.

"Well there's still plenty more of those freaks wandering about," retorted Samson. "I say bring it on!"

A father and two sons, all from the Nichols family, well-known within the Cider District for their love of big game hunting, and anything else that involved shooting guns, even if the R.P.D didn't always agree with their 'hobbies'. When everything had gone to hell the day previous, they had been amongst those who had fought against the zombies swarming through the district during the morning and into the afternoon, but even they couldn't help and in the end the barricades were overrun.

Somehow they had wound up on this overpass bridge, their battered red pick-up truck parked a few dozen yards away down the street, overlooking one of the main avenues that lead into the heart of the Cider District. They had driven one big circle today, after running into countless dead ends, most of the roads leading out of town blocked off by car wrecks of other random debris. And with no other options available to them, Harry had proposed an impromptu 'shooting competition', with the countless zombies choking the roads as the prey. The floodlights, and the crate of firecrackers beside them, were intended to draw the zombies in- bright lights and loud noises seemed to draw them in like bees to honey.

It was certainly a lot easier than hunting deer or bears, for one. Those zombies were so slow and stupid that getting a kill shot first time was easy as pie. And as Samson also noted, it was perhaps the closest you could get to actually hunting human beings without being arrested and thrown in jail. And since the police were in no shape to do anything about it...the hunt was on.

"Well there's sure to be plenty more of those fuckers to go around," replied Harry, laying his rifle across the concrete rim of the overpass and peering down the scope, watching intently as blood continued to leak out from the ruptured skull of the red-headed woman his son had just sniped moments before. "Just need to lure a few more of them out," he then added, reaching down and producing a set of firecrackers. He then passed them over to his son, who lit the fuse at one end, and then tossed them down onto the road below, where after a few more moments, they erupted into a series of popping and crackling noises, bright bursts of light illuminating the scene below.

"Oh yeah, come on out, baby!" laughed Samson, firing his rifle into the air for good measure. And once more zombies had come into view, it was time to add to his scoring tally once again.

To his right through, his younger brother, Ruben, remained silent as if glued to his sniper scope. A rather frail-looking figure in his early twenties with light brown hair and green eyes, Ruben hated the fact they were doing this, rather than trying to get out of the city. Sure, these zombies may have been soulless monsters now, but they were human beings once: men, women and children with lives, and friends, and jobs, and families before this whole mess started.

He still couldn't get past the fact that the first zombie he had killed was a little girl with her blonde hair in pigtails and wearing a blue party dress. It didn't matter that one side of her neck had been chewed off and her eyes were just pale marbles, but he still felt a hard twinge when he had shot her through the head at 20 yards with a Colt S.A.A revolver, blowing her brains out in a fountain of gore and skull fragments.

Not even his brother's congratulations could bring him out of his despair, though to be frank his brother had never been one to support him through life; nor his father, too wrapped up in their damned hunting and shooting competitions to take any notice of his feelings. Listening to the way he was thinking now, most wouldn't put him in the same basket as the men from the Nichols family. But then again, Ruben had always been his own character, not following with family tradition.

Speaking of which, he glanced over towards where his brother and father peered through their scopes once more, laughing amongst themselves still. He loathed them for forcing him into this, when he knew fine well there were a million other places they could be, rather than out here, shooting and partying like it were some cause for celebration. Too many people they knew from the Cider District had died already- friends and neighbours, good people.

And he hadn't heard from his girlfriend, Jessie, ever since the previous day either. She could be somewhere safe, could already have gotten out of town- or she might have been still walking around somewhere, either as a human or one of...those..._things_.

He shuddered just thinking that.

"Looks like old Ruben's still got quite a ways to go though, huh?" said Samson suddenly, turning to face his little brother.

"Eh, same as always Ruben," chuckled Harry, "miles behind your old man and brother."

"I don't care about winning," was all Ruben said in response, continuing to scan the street they were watching over through his scope.

"Oh come, on, little man!" laughed Samson in a mocking tone, "you're never gonna be a big shot unless you have a little competition in your bones, ha!" He then turned back towards the figure of his father, a smile playing on his lips. "Ain't that right, dad?"

Ruben didn't pay too much attention to what was said next, though it was probably the same old bullshit he had to contend with on a daily basis, about how he wasn't fit to hold the Nichols name, that kind of thing. He instead squinted down his scope when yet another figure came into view from down the street, a man in dark pants and jacket, wearing a white shirt underneath, along with black dress shoes. He walked slowly, glancing back and forth every now and then. He didn't display any of the lethargic movements associated with the undead.

_Shit! Is that someone else still alive?_

The figure continued along the street, towards where the zombie corpses carpeted the tarmac. He slowed down upon approach, seemingly horrified by the scene before him. Ruben adjusted his scope magnification, and his sight closed in on the man, close enough to see his expression, to see the dirt and sweat smeared across his face. He was a human, that much was certain.

He lowered his rifle, turning to tell his family about this discovery-

CRACK!

The retort of a rifle screamed through the silence, almost causing him to leap out his skin, closely followed by a very human shriek of agony. He quickly glanced through his scope again, seeing the man lying on his side now, hands grabbing at the shredded flesh where his right knee used to be, blood streaming out onto the tarmac, leaving a burgundy puddle beneath his sprawled form. He turned to his right, to see Samson looking down his scope.

"Damn, missed the kill shot," he muttered, sounding disappointed. Needless to say, Ruben was disgusted to hear that.

"What the hell are you talking about?" he demanded, angrily. "That wasn't a zombie, that was a goddamn human being!"

"So what?" snorted Samson. "Haven't you read the rules? Humans are worth double points!" he added callously, before reaching for the board and preparing to scratch some more tally lines on next to his name.

"Double points?" spluttered Ruben, almost turning red with rage. "This isn't one of your little hunting games, Samson! This is life and death!" He turned towards Harry, who only remained glued to his scope, his face impassive throughout his son's debate. "Dad! Why the hell aren't you saying anything?"

"Ruben!" barked his father angrily, turning to face his youngest son with a harsh look upon his face. His rifle was aimed down the street, just like Samson's. His brow was furrowed in an angry expression as he spoke up again. "We're doing this to survive. You _know _that. We can't afford to take any chances."

"But he wasn't even _armed_!"

"Can't afford to take any chances," replied Harry. "You two are the only family I have left now, and I'm not going to let anybody, zombie or otherwise, take that away from me."

Ruben looked back and forth between Harry and Samson, the latter having a rather creepy smile on his face. He began to shake his head slowly. "You've lost it. You've both lost it."

"Lost it?" asked Samson, turning on his younger brother. "You ever read the Constitution, Ruben? Second Amendment: right to bear arms!"

"That's right son," agreed Harry, "we're just expressing our constitutional right to defend ourselves when our home is in danger."

"AAHHHHH, IT HURTS!" screamed the man with the wounded leg form down the street, showing that he was indeed still alive. He writhed in agony on the tarmac, before trying to claw his way forward towards some semblance of cover, though the fact a large puddle of blood had now pooled beneath him showed that he didn't have much steam left in him, and he settled on just rolling onto his back.

"Damn it!" cursed Ruben, feeling his anxiety spike.

"Here's your chance boy," said Harry suddenly, not looking up from his scope.

"Chance for what?" asked an exasperated Ruben.

"To prove that you're a man," responded Harry. "To show that you're a Nichols man through-and-through."

"What? You don't mean"-

"This kill's all yours, Ruben," said Samson, lowering his rifle. "You finish him off, and then you can show that you're a true man."

"But"-

"No but's, Ruben!" barked Harry harshly. "He's right there in front of you! Take the damned shot and show your old man just what you're capable of!"

"Go on Ruben, show us what you can do," taunted Samson in a soft voice. Ruben looked over at them for a few more moments, and then when he realised they were deadly serious, he quickly turned back and raised his rifle to eye level, eye pushed against the scope.

The screams of agony had faded away to nothing now, the bleeding from the man's leg having just reduced to light streams now as he neared death. He seemed to be trying to form words with his mouth, but at this distance it was impossible to discern anything. Ruben set the sights over the man's torso, his aim wavering due to his stressed breathing.

"Go on Ruben, you can do it," urged Samson's voice. "It's a clear shot; no wind...no other distractions, nothing to worry about."

"Do it son!" added Harry, his voice low and encouraging.

Ruben's sights were shaking even greater now, his heartbeat thundering in his ears as his world closed down to that one whimpering man focused within his viewing scope. His hands and brow were sweaty, and he could feel his grip on the wood slipping.

"Shoot him!"

"He's right in front of you!"

"A five year old could make that shot!"

Ruben's shaking was so bad now he was sure he'd drop the rifle then and there, but his family's taunts and urging statements were still in his ear hole constantly. Peer pressure was always drummed into his head by his mother as the worst kind of pressure to be put under; and now that she was no longer here, the full brunt of his brother's and father's pressure was bearing down on him.

"Do it!"

He pulled the trigger.

CRACK!

The round missed by a few yards, pinging harmlessly off of the tarmac beside the man instead. From beside Ruben, Samson shook his head.

"Knew you didn't have the bottle," was all he said, disappointed, before raising his own rifle to eye level and firing. Blood erupted from the man's torso, and he shuddered badly, before finally laying still, blood pouring from the ragged wound in his chest. Ruben just stared dumbfounded.

"See Ruben?" said Harry mockingly. "You brother can get the job done when its required, no questions asked, no hesitation. He ended that man's misery right then- better than _you_ ever could have." Samson gave his little brother a knowing smirk, glad to receive the seal of approval from his father.

"Shut up, just shut up," muttered Ruben as he peered down his scope again. He could see more zombies emerging into the street now, drawn out by the commotion no doubt. He set his sights over the face of an elderly, hunched gentlemen and squeezed the trigger.

CRACK!

The man crumpled to the tarmac, half of his head blown apart. A few seconds later, a teenage boy wearing a basketball vest followed a similar fate, shot through the right eye.

"Hey hey, looks like Ruben's grown a pair at last, dad!" laughed Samson as he hastily added two etches on the board beside Ruben's name, and then a third as his younger brother dropped a third freak that looked in danger of wasting away on the spot.

Focusing on the wasted people was the only way that Ruben could take his mind off the anger that threatened to make him turn around and smash Samson's face in, or blow it off with his rifle.

* * *

Everything had been out of focus, flowing as though she were wading through a sea of treacle. Since she had first encountered the police officers, Max and Grayson, the former level-headed and calm, while the latter was on the verge of having a nervous breakdown, screaming and raging at everything around him.

And then he had finally snapped and shot his partner dead, before trying to do the same with her. She still saw his face in her mind, leering over her, covered in sweat, dirt and blood, threatening to blow her brains out, insisting that it would be for the best. But thankfully some intervention had saved her hide and left him nursing a nasty bite wound- doomed to become one of 'them' and leaving him to blow his own brains out.

'_-you'll always have my face engraved into your brain whenever you close your eyes.'_

"How you holding up?"

She glanced upwards into the bearded face of her saviour, noting the concern etched on her face. She felt somewhat anxious about being around a total stranger, considering what had just happened, but he had saved her from sharing the fate of her work colleagues, and he had offered nothing but kindness towards her, so perhaps she should trust him a little more.

"I-I'm fine," she stuttered, "it's just that"-

"I know," he replied, moving over and kneeling down in front of her, taking a hold of her wrists and examing the scrapes that she had sustained earlier.

_No, no you don't actually know what I'm feeling right now! _She thought ratherly bitterly as he continued his examination. Her skin was red and inflamed, small pieces of gravel embedded within a few deeper scrapes. "Here, let me take a look, he added," furrowing his brow. "Miss-?"

"Kelly," she replied, offering him a weak smile.

"Steven," he replied, before gently probing at her forearm with his thumb.

Following their initial encounter a couple of hours back, they had found themselves in an abandoned warehouse attic which appeared to have been converted into a makeshift shelter by whoever had been living here previously, or by people that had come through here earlier. A battered-looking three-piece sofa and a pair of chairs served as seating, while a fold-out table was decorated with empty coffee mugs and candy wrappers, the wooden floorboards covered with a tattered green and red-patterned rug. It looked as though some other people had stopped here not too long ago, throwing an impromptu end-of-the-world party. To the far right, a set of windows looked out over what used to be Raccoon City.

"Hold on, this might sting a little," Steven warned as he produced a bottle of disinfectant that he had found in a nearby medicine cabinet and poured some into a white cloth, before he applied it to Kelly's arm. She winced visibly and bit her lower lip as the substance did its work, cleaning away any infection that could have taken hold since from when she took the fall initially.

"There we go," he continued, as he repeated the process with her other arm. Once the deed was done, he set the disinfectant aside and was careful to wipe down her arms and wrap the scrapes in some gauze bandages, just in case. She just watched him work throughout the entire process.

"You've got very soft hands," she said out of nowhere, prompting him to look at her in the eye. "Are you a doctor or something?" He smirked in response.

"No, nothing like that," he chuckled as he settled back into the seat opposite her, "just I have a lot of experience in taking care of scrapes and bruises: having two daughters who always played in the back garden meant there were quite a few tumbles."

"Daughters?" asked Kelly curiously. "Then...I guess you're not from Raccoon then?"

"No, no, thank God," he replied, pulling out a bronze-plated pocket watch and snapping it open. "I'm from England- I was only meant to be in town for work..." His voice trailed off as he looked down at the open locket. Curiously, Kelly rose to her feet and moved around behind him to see what he was examining so intently.

"Your family?" she asked, and he just nodded in response.

"I work for Umbrella," he explained, still focused on the picture. "In their finance department. I was in town for a meeting with their board of directors about the expenditures for this quarter...and then- well, you've seen what happened. One minute I was sat in the Apple Inn enjoying a drink, and then the next those things were smashing the doors and windows down."

"Guess you're wishing you took the day off then?" she asked, and he chuckled in response. "Mind you, I wish I did the same thing too. One minute I was at work as normal...and then the next those people were streaming in and killing anyone they could find."

"Zombies," stated Steven.

"What?"

"That's what they are," he replied, before adding quickly, "or rather, something close enough to that. Just like the things in the Biohazard movie series- except this isn't a movie." With that, he rose from his seat and crossed over to the windows, looking out across the burning city. "Hard to tell if there is any safe havens left in this place now...they're everywhere."

Kelly looked up briefly, and then lowered her head. "I know...I thought that when I saw those police officer I was safe, but I was such an idiot. He had a gun to my head, and was threatening to blow my brains out!" She stopped to give herself time to recompose herself, before continuing. "There wasn't anything I could do. And then he said it was _my _fault that he was doomed!"

"I'm sorry," said Steven, turning to face her. "If I had only got there sooner when I heard the commotion," he continued, with regret.

"-then he would have probably shot you too," Kelly replied, "and then you wouldn't have been able to save anyone in the first place."

"I guess you're right," he sighed, admitting the inevitable. "But right now, we need to worry about ourselves. From what we've both seen, it looks as though there aren't any safe places left. Even if we stay here they'll find us sooner or later."

"But we have to do something!" said Kelly, rising to her feet. "We can't just sit here and wait for them to come and finish us off!" Steven looked at her for a while, before he nodded slowly.

"OK," he then said, crossing over to pick up the blood-drenched fire axe that he had used to take the heads off of a few of those zombies on their way here. She wondered just what was going through his head when he did the deed: was he sick to the core at decapitating what used to be normal people, or whether he was indifferent to it all by now? The blood sprayed across the front of his shirt suggested so.

"You're right," he continued, looking out the window beside him once again. "If we keep moving those things won't have a chance to catch up to us. And besides, trying to find help is better than nothing at all." She nodded in agreement as he walked closer. "Look, whatever happens Kelly, just stay close to me, allright?"

"Sure, I'll stay close to you, Mr-doing-my-best-impression-of-Jack Nicholson-from-The Shining." He chuckled in response.

"Well if that's how you see me..." he began.

A new, unfamiliar sound cut him off, almost like something running across the roof above their heads. Kelly jumped visibly as she cast her eyes skywards, and Steven soon followed suit, clutching his fire axe tightly. The sound came again, this time crossing from the far corner of the loft, and back over their heads, forcing them to turn towards the bare brick wall behind where he was currently stood.

"What is that?" Kelly whispered voice hoarse from the anxiety.

"I don't know," replied Steven slowly, as the sounds crossed over his head again, towards the window, and he feared for the worst. He hefted the axe up and waiting for the unknown assailant to show itself. He peered up through the window, trying to see if there was anything waiting to crash through, but he could discern nothing. After several more moments, the sounds didn't come again, and relief filled the two survivors.

Steven allowed himself to breathe out finally and turned towards Kelly, his pulse returning to normal gradually. "Looks like it was a false alarm"-

The window behind him exploded.

* * *

Jessop knew he was on the right track when he found the dead bodies at the side of the trail he'd been following ever since waking up from the coach crash.

They were both members of the prison staff, dressed in white shirts and black pants. Most likely they were workers from the admin section, and they had both been shot through the head. One of them had died with his face locked into a pleading expression, eyes wide in fear and mouth open. It looked as though he'd been begging to be spared up until the moment of his death. Neither of them showed any sign of turning into one of those 'crazies'.

_Shit! They're turning on each other!_

His mind turned to Adams. That psychopathic white supremacist was well known for his sudden acts of violence, almost entirely when unprovoked as well. In fact he was only in the prison because he'd been caught in the middle of a disturbingly ritualistic butchering of a corpse. It was after that arrest he was linked to nearly 5 other deaths in the county, deaths he never admitted. But he never denied them either.

And to top it all off he'd been left with a Hispanic inmate, Hector. He wondered how much longer it would be before he found the inmate's body dumped in a ditch, shot in a similar manner, along with the rest of the survivors while the bastard saved his own skin.

He shook his head, knowing that this meant there were at least two deaths that could have been prevented, had he been a little faster in tracking the others down, if he hadn't been knocked out in that crash. He buried his head in his left hand and shook it, the fatigue and the pressure getting to him.

"Shit...what the hell can one man do?" he asked the empty forest. But there was nobody or anything left to answer him. He was entirely alone out here, at the mercy of the forest and whatever lurked just out of sight, waiting for him to fall before moving in to finish him. He could almost hear Warden Salt's voice in his head, advising him on how to do his job right, what he could improve on. For the first six months on the job, he seriously considered walking away on more than one occasion, but the warden had convinced him to stay with it. He owed James Salt so much.

And now he was dead. Plainview, Barges, Morales, Pierce- they were all dead and gone. He was the last one left.

_No! I can't let their deaths be in vain!_

He shook his head and stood up straight, knowing it would be a stain on the prison's reputation if its last surviving CO just gave up halfway through a cross-country pursuit. He had to find Adams and rein him in, and then lead the others to some semblance of safety, away from the chaos gradually engulfing the region.

He continued along the path, until he came across a wooden notice board standing at the side of the trail, beside a wooden bench for anyone passing through to use. He saw that it was bore the mark of the Raccoon County Tourism Board, and it showed the network of paths and trails in the general vicinity, as well as marking nearby camping amenities. He peered close at the board, looking for the red star which showed his current position, near to a fork in the path.

_Great...two routes to take. _

From what he could see, there were no signs of recent human passage along the current stretch of trail, so it was impossible to say which way they had gone. So he consulted the map instead, and saw that the left fork lead up into the nearby Arklay Mountains, where only the most daring (or suicidal, take your pick) mountaineers dared to venture. And considering the group from the prison had little supplies save for guns and ammo, heading up there would have been suicide for them. And so his attention turned towards the other path.

According to the map board, it lead towards Arklay Springs- a local camper's residence consisting of over a dozen wooden log cabins and other services, designed to support a few dozen campers at the most, normally used by boy scouts on residential trips or large parties looking for a camping holiday in the woods. And it wasn't far removed from the main road into Raccoon City, so it seemed the most logical place for a number of people to hole up in and wait for the cavalry to come by and pick them up. It looked like Jessop had his new destination in mind.

_It's the best I've got._

With everything decided, he set out on his way once again, only pausing briefly to down another couple of painkillers, as he could detect the lingering pain in his head and ribs beginning to return. Once the pills were starting to take effect, he continued on his way, It didn't take him long to find the proof that he had indeed chosen the correct path to take.

In the centre of the trail were the spent brass casings from what looked to be a 9mm handgun, along with a single red shotgun casing. The brass was cold now, so some time had passed since they weapons were used, though he could still see where they had passed through, breaking through the soft undergrowth and embedding into thick tree trunks, splinters littering the forest floor. He could also see a splash of dried blood across the grass, but no body, human or otherwise.

_Oh dammit, they were shooting at something. Was it one of those crazies? Or something else?_

It was a thought that didn't exactly steady his nerves, but he couldn't let them get to him, lest he end up screwing up and making a mistake which got him killed. But still, he just couldn't quite quell that anxiety probing the back of his brain, telling him that something very bad was lurking just out of sight, waiting to strike.

He raised the revolver to his eye level and checked the cylinders were still fully loaded, before snapping it shut again, and then taking off on a steady jog down the trail towards his intended destination.

* * *

Corporal Greene knew that it was about due time he got some straight answers, as he walked away from the perimeter of the refugee centre, pulling out the cell phone he had received the previous day, snapping it open and dialling the lone number saved on it: the one for the man he knew all about now; Daniel Lindeman, director of Umbrella's New York operations.

He had taken a few moments to do some research the second he had got back from the briefing with the Lieutenant. He knew this Lindeman had worked with Umbrella for some 50 years, risen his way up through the ranks to his current position, known as being somewhat ruthless in business matters, yet with a keen intellect. It was clear from the nature of the conference that something fishy was up within the Board of Directors, and within the city itself. And it was high time he got some answers rather than being kept in the dark.

The phone was dialling for an abnormally long, and for a moment he was sure that there wouldn't be a response, until he finally heard the click of the other end answering, and he received a rather barbed response.

"Do you mind? It's not exactly easy to excuse myself from these talks."

"I think that's the least of your concerns right now, Mr Lindeman," shot back Greene. "I'm sure you're not blind- you know fine well I was in that meeting back there and I know I probably recognised your voice as well."

"Yes, I'll give you that," replied the Director, "I never implied you were an idiot Corporal. This was bound to happen sooner or later; I just never expected to see you at that conference."

"Save it, Mr Lindeman," snapped Greene, glancing over his shoulder before turning his attention back towards the cell phone. "You and the other Directors are up to something, and I want to know why the hell you dragged me into this entire mess!" There was a slight sigh from the other end, and then a low chuckle.

"Well its clear there's no pulling the fast one on you, eh Corporal?" chuckled Lindeman. "No, you're perfectly correct. There is something else going on, something that's worth far more than the lives of everyone within Raccoon City."

"Excuse me?" asked Greene, not believing what he was hearing. "There's over a hundred thousand people in that city, and you and your friends are perfectly fine with just letting them die?"

"I know it sounds horrible, but they are already beyond salvation, Mr Greene," replied Lindeman calmly. "This isn't about a toxic waste spillage- this is something far beyond what the tiny mind of the average person can ever comprehend. And if it ever comes to light, then my life, and the lives of everyone else in Umbrella will be in jeopardy."

Greene held his tongue for the time being. Beforehand he had never believed in conspiracy theories- how man never landed on the moon, Area 51 and aliens, and so forth. But after what had transpired so far, it looked as though things weren't as clear cut now.

"Is that so?" asked Greene sarcastically. "And what makes you think I'm willing to go along with it?"

"Oh well no-one's forcing you to do so," replied Lindeman in a casual manner, "you do have a choice. You can do what I ask of you, and as long as things go smoothly then there won't be much else to worry about...and I'll ensure that all of your debts are cleared." Tobias bit his lip and glanced back once more, anxious of what would come next.

"-or you can just refuse, walk away and act as though things are normal. But of course, we both know fine well those debts won't clear themselves, and I doubt your loan sharks have much patience left before they break your joints and then leave your body floating down the river somewhere, hmmmm?"

The sarcasm was dripping off his words by the end of his little monologue, and Greene cursed mentally to himself. The old man was right in a way- if he didn't find a way to get the money together soon, he was as good as dead. It was getting harder and harder for him to conceal the bruises and other injuries that he received from his beatings, even when he tried to fight back, and even Lieutenant Fletcher had stepped in at one point to help out. The next time would probably be his last, and he valued his life too much for such a fate.

_I just know I'll regret this._

"Fine," he sighed heavily, glancing behind him once more. "What is it you want me to do again?"

"Oh, it's as I explained beforehand, Mr Greene," answered Lindeman, "you just need to observe activities at the centre and keep me informed on any developments. As I told you prior, if the truth about this whole mess ever came to light, then we will all have to pay the price."

"And I suppose you'll keep me in the dark about the truth?"

"Oh come now, there's no need for that kind of behaviour," replied Lindeman, before adding, "as I told you beforehand, if the truth ever came out then a lot of people would lose their jobs...or worse. And that means I can't even risk telling you, my trusted contact."

"Trusted my ass," spat Greene in response, though the director chose to ignore that remark, as he seemed to be conversing with someone in the background.

"I must go now," he then stated out of nowhere, "but I shall contact you later. Keep your phone close."

"Hold on a damned second"-

_Click._

"Fuck!" he cursed, turning away and putting the phone away into his pocket, and then turning back and walking over towards the tents in the near distance. Though he was clearly still angry at this Lindeman, and angry at himself, there wasn't exactly much he could do right now. The best thing he could do now was to get back to work, before Lieutenant Fletcher and anyone else got suspicious about what he was up to, standing away from everyone else.

He was just walking up to the edge of the refugee tents when he could hear Fletcher on the comms link to somebody else, and he didn't sound too happy right then.

"-but sir, with all due respect," he began, before he fell silent as the person on the other end spoke up once again. "Well I'm sorry they feel that way, but I'm not the kind of person to just become a corporate lackey."

More angry static from the other end, and then Fletcher sighed heavily as he nodded. "Yes sir. As you wish sir. Goodbye." He put the horn down as Greene stepped inside.

"That was Colonel Adams, wasn't it sir?" he asked.

"Got it in one," replied Fletcher as he turned back towards his subordinate. "He's not too happy with my performance at the video conference with Umbrella's directors," he explained, though it was largely obvious judging from what he had been talking about when the Corporal had walked up. "They feel as though I'm not on the same page as everyone else in this situation, and it's not helping at all. Their words, of course. And Adams seems to be very eager to just roll over and let them walk all over us- but I know he's just obsessed about how the PR for our regiment would be affected by this whole mess."

"You can't blame the Colonel for acting like that," reasoned Greene, "I mean, look at the mess that happened with Captain Petrucci."

"Don't get me started on Petrucci," Fletcher muttered, shaking his head. "I spoke to one of his sergeants not too long ago- it seems that Petrucci sent another fire team into the city on a recon mission, but no-one's neither heard hide nor hair from them since then."

"Jesus," whispered Greene. "What was he thinking?"

"Who knows?" replied Fletcher sharply, "but right now we still have to worry about the refugees under our jurisdiction. Greene, go over the paperwork and try to get together a list of everybody here at the moment- see if we can link up with everyone else and try and get some families back together."

"Yes sir," nodded Greene, before turning on his heel and striding back out into the afternoon air, waving a few troopers over to help him out. There was still a lot of work to do, but the voice of Lindeman lingered at the back of his mind, almost as if taunting him, making him doubt his intentions.

* * *

"Well then, that's quite a story."

They had all relocated to a packaging warehouse filled with crates of tinned fruit and other perishables stacked to the very ceiling, also featuring an upper walkway leading towards an enclosed security office, and downstairs there was a large shutter which led out onto the street, as well as more offices and a restroom along the far wall.

The scar-faced man had lead the university students here after he had found them at the convenience store, saving Ryan and Miles from those fleet-footed, red-skinned zombies with claws. Amy and Ryan were eating from open tins of canned peaches, whereas Miles was helping Michelle to eat from a similar can- though she remained silent, she was walking by herself now, and was accepting the food.

"Yes, you could say that," replied Miles as he looked over at the man, leaning against a concrete pillar, "Mr...?"

"Hotspur," the man replied, matter-of-factly. "Corporal Juan Hotspur, from the U.B.C.S."

Ryan looked the man up and down briefly. He didn't just look like a soldier- he looked a literal one-man army, armed with not only his assault rifle and the savage-looking knife hanging from a sheath on the lower half of his flak vest, but he also had a pistol holstered at his right hip, and numerous ammunition magazines and packs hanging from his vest and various straps crossing his body. He looked more like a hero from a cheesy gung-ho action movie than a normal person.

"The U.B.C.S?" asked Miles with a raised eyebrow. "What the heck's that?"

"The Umbrella Biohazard Countermeasure Service," explained Hotspur, a trace of Spanish accent in his dialect. "We were deployed into the city to save the civilians."

"Wait, Umbrella has its own military unit?" asked Ryan.

"Not exactly," snapped Hotspur. "We're just hired mercenaries. We've got no official connection with the company- we just do what's asked of us, long as the price is right," he continued, moving away from the pillar and standing beside a stack of crates instead. He then ripped his blade free from its sheath and started carving something into the surface of the crate right beside him.

"Right then," replied Miles, not convinced. "So then where are the rest of your buddies?"

"Who knows?" replied the Latino man, sounding a little bothered now. "Most of them were killed within minutes of landing. The rest of us ran for it...far as I know, I'm the only one left."

"Damn it," cursed Miles, dropping the spoon he had been using onto the floor, and rubbing his brow harshly. It looked as though the stress was getting to him now, having been told the cavalry had been wiped out almost to the man. "But there has to be something that can be done!"

"Well what do you suggest, hombre?" asked Hotspur, twirling his knife around and aiming the tip towards Miles. "I'm just one man, after all. It was a stroke of luck I found you all when I did in the first place."

Ryan remained quiet as he observed this Hotspur man. From the start he knew there was something very dangerous about this man; it wasn't just his scarred face, it was the way he carried himself- supremely confident and also with a dangerous air, almost as though he wouldn't hesitate to turn around and cut them all up into pieces. To say the least, he was content not to say too much right now and just see what happened.

"Something wrong?" asked Hotspur suddenly, turning to face Amy who had been staring at him quietly for a while now as they spoke between one another. She flinched visibly, and he offered a slight smirk. "Oh, I see. Wondering where I got this?" he then asked, pointing to the scar that bisected his face.

She didn't reply as he maintained his glare.

"I got this during a stint in a Panama jail," he continued. "You ever spent a few days in one of those? Ha, I tell you, that ain't no picnic. No guards, no nothing. They just throw you all inside and throw away the key. Every man for himself."

"You were in prison?" asked Ryan in disbelief. "What for, exactly?" he then inquired, but Hotspur sidestepped the question as he spoke up again.

"One thing for sure, there's way too many of those things out there right now," he stated as he sheathed his knife and walked back over towards the pillar he'd been leaning against. "It wouldn't be very smart trying to go through them. Taking the long way around would be best...and finally, I don't know about you guys, but I feel as though I'm going to pass out on the spot. We should at least rest for a while."

"He's right," agreed Amy, speaking up after swallowing a mouthful of peaches. "Come on Ryan, we've been walking for far too long today- we have to stop and get some sleep. For everyone's sake."

"The redhead's got a good point," stated Hotspur as he glanced right at her, a smile playing about his lips. Ryan paused for a moment to consider the implications behind that statement, before he shook his head and focused on the main concern at hand.

"OK, sure," he sighed, setting down his now empty tin. "He's right. And he is the guy with the guns and the big knife in the end- we're safer staying in here."

"Thanks for agreeing, son," smiled Hotspur, a slightly condescending edge to the word 'son'. "All of you should stay as close as you can- don't wander off too far."

"Sure thing, Mr Hotspur," replied Miles sarcastically as he rose to his feet. "Just remember that we've survived for quite a while before you and your friends dropped into town."

"Well either way, don't get cocky, kid," shot back Hotspur, eyeing up Miles suspiciously. "I've seen too many people get killed because they let their guard down, or got overconfident. I'd hate to see you follow a similar fate," he then added, even as he glanced over towards Michelle, waiting until she looked up and he caught her eye, before he offered a grin that was to similar to the one he had given Amy moments beforehand. This time it was Miles' turn to consider the implications.

"Yeah, sure," said Ryan, picking up on his friend's uneasiness, and breaking Hotspur's gaze.

"Yeah, of course," agreed Hotspur, nodding. "Well, you guys want to get yourself comfortable, I'll keep lookout." With that, he retrieved his assault rifle and pulled back the bolt, before moving over to sit on a crate that was opposite the steel door they had originally entered through. He cast a glance back towards the students and offered an eyebrow raise and a smile, before turning away again.

As soon as his attention was diverted, Miles got up and entered one of the offices, looking to scrounge up some blankets to act as makeshift bedding. Michelle offered a brief smile as he left, but otherwise remained rooted to the spot. After a few more moments, Amy turned to Ryan and lowered her voice to a whisper.

"Ryan, I don't trust that man."

"Guess I'm not the only one who thought that," he replied, stealing a quick glance backwards. "He's just got this dangerous air about him. Like we shouldn't risk turning our backs on him."

"But still, he's right- we can't just go running off by ourselves and leave him on his own," reasoned Amy, "and besides, he seems to have experience of these kinds of situations."

"Does that mean stuff like this has happened before?" asked Ryan as he glanced back again. "That Raccoon City wasn't the first place to have this happen? Why else would Umbrella have its own military unit dedicated to that means? There's something else going on here..."

"Well we don't really have the time to work out conspiracies," hissed Amy, as she noted Hotspur was glancing in their general direction, before he offered another of his smirks and turned away to focus on the door again. Even though it looked pretty solid with a few wooden crates stacked against it, it would never hurt to be too careful. "Ryan...I feel as though I might just pass out on the spot. Please, can we just put our heads down for a few hours at least?" Ryan looked into her eyes for a few seconds before he finally caved and offered a smile and a nod.

"Sure thing," he said. "Sorry, I was just..."

"Just what?"

"Uh, it's nothing," he said q quickly, shaking his head. "Come on, let's see if we can help Miles find something to help us bed down for the night," he then added as he rose to his feet.

"Don't go too far kids," called the Umbrella soldier from the entrance, prompting Ryan and Amy to glance over towards where the scarred man was still perched upon his crate, looking over towards them.

"We won't, don't worry," replied Ryan without mirth as he lead Amy away towards where Miles had disappeared into the office. As they went, Hotspur raised an eyebrow and offered another smile to himself, before turning away to face the door once again.

_Just a bunch of skinny kids- but that makes it all the more easier for me..._

* * *

Kelly was screaming even as Steven bought the axe down, taking off one of the spindly legs of the horror which had crashed through the attic window. It shrieked and stumbled back, its piercing cry mingling with Kelly's scream and threatening to rupture his eardrums.

"RUN!"

She didn't need to be told twice, spinning around and bursting through the door leading out onto the fire escape, her footfalls clanging down towards ground level. The horror threw itself towards Steven on its hind legs, and he swung the axe wide, the blade cutting across the front of its chest and spilling green, foul-smelling blood that sprayed across everything in range, including the front of his shirt and jacket. It stumbled back, its remaining arms flailing wildly.

He took the opportunity to run himself, throwing the door open and slamming it shut, throwing his weight against it whilst fumbling to throw the bolt into place. But he was too slow.

WHAM!

Something heavy slammed against the door from the other side, and he was thrown backwards, the axe flying out of his grasp and falling down to ground level. Kelly was nowhere to be seen.

"Damn," he grunted, before stumbling down the stairs as fast as he could manage, all the while with that damned shrieking going through his skull. His mind couldn't even begin to process what it was meant to be- some huge, vomit-skinned, clawed, bulky creature that called to mind an insect, albeit one featuring great meat cleavers on its legs and mandibles dripping with bloody gunk and other unmentionable fluids. It was almost as though it had crawled out of someone's worst nightmare.

_Or out of Hell itself._

There was a groaning of steel, and then the door above him was forced outwards, literally out of its frame, and then the thing came scuttling out, its claws slicing through the thin steel grating of the fire escape, causing it to catch itself in the construction, continuing to shriek madly at him. By then Steven had reached the bottom of the fire escape, and had retrieved the fire axe, pulling it out from amongst some black trash bags. The creature flailed its arms, the claws slicing through the support rails with ease, and then it fell to the ground below, landing on its back with a the snap of several bones breaking, rendering it practically paralysed.

The thing remained on its back, flailing its arms, and Steven stumbled back to avoid its claws as one of them sliced open a tear in his jacket sleeve. Only pausing for a moment to examine the extent of the damage, he stepped forward and bought the axe down in a two-handed overhead chop, the blade slicing through the creature's neck and taking off its head into the bargain. Only then did it finally become still, as green blood spurted from the severed stump.

Steven stared down at the twisted creature, even as he heard Kelly approaching from behind, finally coming out of hiding since the threat had been dealt with. He stepped away from the dead body as its legs curled in on the main body, and soon enough Kelly finally broke the silence with the most pertinent question at the time.

"What the hell was that?"

Steven wished he had an answer for her. But much like those zombies, this thing seemed to defy all logic. It couldn't be explained in a million years. He opened his mouth to say something when another piercing cry cut him off.

He swung around to try and face the source of the noise, when something large and bulky crashed into him from above him, and he was knocked flat on his back in tandem with Kelly's frantic screaming.

Another of the creatures towered over him, and this close he could pick out every oozing sore on its skin, every smear of blood from recent victims, and each stiff hair that erupted from its pores. He could even see his own terrified expression within its bulbous eyes as it began to draw near, eager to sink its mandibles into his soft flesh. Somewhere behind Kelly, a second creature, identical to the first, clambered down the brick wall, homing in on them both. His axe was still out of reach, there was nothing they could do to hold them off-

The first creature came down at him, shrieking in anticipation of the kill-

BOOM!

A terrific sound ripped through the alleyway, and the creature's head erupted like a balloon filled with gore, spraying everything within a few feet in stinking green blood. Kelly screamed once again, further antagonizing the creature hanging off of the wall above her, and it began to claw down towards her at a faster rate. Then that noise came again, and the creature dislodged from the wall, falling onto a closed dumpster with a fair amount of noise. It flailed on its back for a few more moments, and then another cracking sound, somewhat quieter than the first two, and then the monster fell still, its head lolling to the side limply, part of it blown away.

"Steven!" called Kelly as she scampered to his side and helped him to his feet gingerly. He still looked somewhat dazed, those loud noises that had killed the creatures still coursing through his brain.

"I-I'm OK," he said eventually, looking over at his companion. "W-what happened?"

A second later, they were granted their answer as a figure in the light blue shirt and dark pants of the Raccoon City Police Department walked towards them, casually reloading a double-barrelled, sawn-off shotgun like the kind Steven had seen in old Western movies. The figure was covered in dirt, sweat and dried blood, his dark hair matted with blood and other substances, his eyes two bare spaces shining through his filthy face. He reloaded the shotgun finally and snapped the barrels shut before he cast a quick glance over them, examining them up and down to check that they were still in one piece. After a while longer, he finally spoke up, his voice parched from thirst.

"Both of you, come with me, now. Before anymore of those freaks show up."

Steven didn't need telling twice.

* * *

Sergeant William Leland didn't expect this. Not in his 5 years of experience in the Delta Force, or his 5 years in the relatively peaceful posting in the 12th Regiment of the Raccoon Garrison.

He stood by himself at the back door of an abandoned apartment block, standing over the body of what used to be support gunner Adrian Becket, Leland's combat knife embedded through the front of his throat, right up to the hilt. Despite the half-dozen hurried stab wounds that marked the front of his torso, it was only that last wound to the neck that had finally felled him.

"Fuck..." gasped the sergeant as he fell back against the wall behind him, feeling fatigue creeping into his bones.

The whole op had been FUBAR from the start. Captain Petrucci- making increasingly rash decisions in light of the debacle that involved several civilians being gunned down at the checkpoint- has approved another insertion into the city by Leland's fire team consisting of the sergeant, Becket, rifleman Daniel Mitchum and scout Arnold Tucker. It was intended to show the watching media that they had the situation under control and were making headway in trying to understand what had happened in Raccoon City. This was all despite Leland's insistence that going back in was testament to suicide, after what he had seen previously.

Things went to hell almost as soon as the humvee they were travelling in rounded a corner and nearly ploughed through an entire crowd of those crazed lunatics. Tucker tried to drive them out of there, but only succeeded in crushing several of the people beneath his wheels and flipping the humvee over. The fire team managed to pull themselves free from the wreckage, but Tucker was trapped in the driver's compartment, and they were forced to leave him behind. Leland could still hear the scout pleading to be rescued as they fled, letting the lunatics swarm around the overturned vehicle.

"_Guys! Please don't leave me! For God's sake HELP ME!"_

And it wouldn't end there, when they tried cutting through an apartment block, only for Mitchum to be attacked and savaged by a dog missing half the skin off its flesh and displaying an almost feral display of violence. The animal only stayed down when it had been pumped full of lead from their weapons, to the extent that it was almost entirely ripped into bloody shreds. And then there were the other crazies that swarmed out of the surrounding apartments and rooms, closing in around them, threatening to overwhelm them.

The fighting was fast, fraught and brutal, spraying the walls, ceiling and themselves in blood and gore and other vital fluids. Leland lost his M4 somewhere within the scuffle, and he was forced into drawing his Beretta sidearm instead. By the time himself and Becket had reached the back door and relative safety, Mitchum was gone- having lost track of him inside the building. There was literally no time to go back and try to pull him to safety, and so they had to fall back even further into Raccoon.

_Two men down within half an hour. Shit, we weren't trained for this._

The next two hours had been a blur as they moved from building to building and street to street, trying to stay alive and engaging the crazies in wild skirmishes. Becket's arm became scratched by one of the lunatic's wild assaults, nails digging into the first couple layers of skin, just deep enough to draw blood. It was only a scratch, the gunner had insisted, but barely an hour later he sounded as though he were coughing up his guts and was dragging his feet, struck down by chronic fatigue.

The next step had resulted in what lay at Leland's feet: Becket going insane in an instant and trying to tear the sergeant's throat out with his bare teeth, forcing Leland to stab him to death. The 'scratch' on Becket's forearm was now badly inflamed and surrounded by dead skin, almost as though it had been infected with something. But the rate at which it had been infected was far faster than he had ever seen in the past.

Something was very wrong in Raccoon City. Even now he could hear the pained moaning of his inhuman pursuers all around, choking the streets and alleyways, pouring out of the buildings to close in around the fresh prey. And Leland was stuck in the middle of it all, with no backup and no easy evac on the way. Considering the cramped nature of the streets, landing a chopper in Raccoon would be almost impossible, and a road convoy would run into the same problem they did upon arrival. No, he was by himself now.

It wouldn't be the first time he had been in enemy territory by himself. His first mission with Delta Force started with the rest of his squad being wiped out when their helicopter was shot down over enemy territory, and he was forced to run, hide, sneak and fight just to stay alive, desperately staying one step ahead of the enemy battalion tracing his steps, until he finally reached the safety of a NATO compound. That mission alone taught him the vital survival skills and bloody-mindedness that had served him well ever since. And he'd need them once again, in this nightmare.

Gingerly, he removed his combat knife from Becket's throat, making sure that none of the blood sprayed onto him- it wasn't entirely clear what had infected Becket in the first place, so it was best to play it safe right now, try not to follow a similar fate. He wiped the blade clean on the breast of Becket's jacket, before he glanced around, looking for something a little more 'substantial', his eyes soon settling on a crowbar that was already stained with blood on one end, having been used earlier.

_That'll do._

He picked the tool up carefully, before taking a good grip to make sure he'd be able to use it with maximum efficiency. He'd barely finished when he heard the weak moan and turned his head to the side to see a male figure dressed in the light grey fatigues of a maintenance worker shamble around the corner. Even with one eye missing and its right arm dangling off by a few strips of flesh, it homed in towards him, intent on the kill. He wondered briefly exactly how smart these things were, but considering that they only attacked by closing in en mass, he figured they weren't smart enough to try and dodge attacks.

Leland didn't intend to give it a chance to do anything otherwise, waiting for it to come within range, before he swung the crowbar into its left cheek, eliciting a crack of bone from the impact and a spray of blood, before it fell to the tarmac. As it lay on the ground, trying to rise up again, he thrust the sharp end of the crowbar down, right through the back of its neck and severing the spinal cord. The creature spasmed in place, and then he ripped the crowbar free in a spurt of blood, and it finally lay still.

"Ugh," he whispered as he observed the ghastly sight. But there was little time to dwell on what had just happened, and he turned his attention towards the direction the creature had come from. Peering around the corner to ensure the coast was clear, he headed off towards somewhere other than here, making things up as he went along.

_Let the games begin..._

* * *

Juan Hotspur had to wait until they had all fallen asleep before making his move. Sure, they may have just been university students, but he was still outnumbered four to one and didn't want to take any chances.

He left his weapons on the crate he had been perched on for the last hour or so, aside from his ever-trusty knife, which he kept at his side. Spending time in that Panama jail had taught him much about keeping some kind of weapon on him at all times, as who knew who would try to cut your throat while you were sleeping? That massive scar bisecting his face could have been a lot worse were he not a millisecond faster as the blade came down at his face.

He peered round the edge of the downstairs office doorway, watching the blonde as she slept. Michelle, they said her name was? Whatever, the only other thing he knew about her was that she had barely said a word since one of their friends had transformed into a viral carrier right in front of her eyes. Lucky for him, she wouldn't be making much noise while he was doing his 'thing'. And then that would just leave the redhead for him to get to know better.

He slipped his fingers through the gap of the partially open door, slowly pushing it open, a smile crossing his features.

"What are you doing?"

Hotspur turned in an instant to face the young man who had been by the blonde's side since they had originally met. He was stood a few yards away, a rather severe look on his face. Hotspur offered a smile as he turned away from the door.

"Hey kid, I was just checking on her, that's all."

"I'm not a kid, first of all," the 'kid' replied, his facial expression not changing one bit, "and secondly, I find that pretty hard to believe. Sure, you saved mine and Ryan's lives back on the streets, but I've seen how you've been looking at Michelle and Amy since we got here."

"Oh?" asked Hotspur, straightening his posture so he was taller than the kid by at least a couple of inches. "Looking at them like what?"

"Well last year one of our lecturers was arrested for sexual harassment," explained the kid plainly, "and we all knew who it was long before it happened- he'd always stare at the girls like they were pieces of meat, up and down. Just like how you're doing right now." There was a deathly silence inside the warehouse as Hotspur's smile faded.

"Oh really?" the scarred mercenary asked a she took a slight step towards the kid. "Miles, was it? You seem like a smart kid. Well if you're as smart as you look, then you'll back off before something happens. This is _none _of your business." Miles looked as though he'd been struck by lightning, even as the larger man turned away from, reaching to open the door into the office again.

"Wait a damn second!" said Miles firmly, recovering as he stepped forward and planted his hand on Hotspur's shoulder, pulling him away. "You dare touch a hair on her head"-

The Hispanic man whirled around with almost unnatural speed, something held in his right hand that was subsequently plunged into Miles' stomach. The student almost doubled over from the impact, a gasp escaping his mouth as the air was knocked out of him. Hotspur grunted in a low manner as he ripped something free, and Miles tumbled to the ground, feeling a sense of weightlessness as blood poured from his stomach, his killer standing over him, clutching a blood-soaked blade in his hand.

The killer was smiling.

"Guess you weren't that smart after all."

And with that, he turned and vanished into the office, as Miles' vision failed him.

Upstairs, Amy had stirred when she heard the sounds of talking, and then had began to sit up in her makeshift 'bed' when she heard what sounded like a gasp: almost like someone having the air knocked out of their lungs suddenly. She remained frozen in that position for a while longer.

"Ryan?" she whispered, only to see that he was currently still fast asleep across from her, eyes closed with his baseball bat laying across his chest, ready for anything. Though they had a heavily-armed Umbrella mercenary to protect them down here, he was still holding onto the weapon for dear life, just in case. After all, neither of them trusted this Hotspur guy one bit.

She considered moving over to rouse Ryan from his slumber, but then she heard a muffled noise beneath her- the office where Michelle was sleeping. She turned her head towards the open doorway briefly, wondering whether or not she should do anything, but when the sounds came again, quickly followed by the sudden crack that could only come from a backhanded slap, she was on her feet instantly.

She was outside in the dimly lit warehouse and quickly descending the steps to the ground floor before she could realise what she was doing- she was in no state to be getting into a fight with whoever had intruded into the warehouse, after all. But Michelle was in no state to resist any attempt to harm her, and Amy couldn't just leave her on her own, adrenaline coursing through her veins.

She had reached the bottom of the stairs and was just about to call out Michelle's name when she saw something else and she cupped her hands to her mouth, smothering a scream of horror.

Miles lay on his back, his entire lower torso and legs drenched in blood, almost as though someone had just painted him with blood-red paint. There was a huge, ragged tear in his stomach as well, from something incredibly sharp. His head was tilted to the side, his eyes closed.

She was about to move forward to examine him when there was another sound from the left, and Hotspur walked out of the office Michelle had been resting in. His knife was clutched in his left hand, covered in recent blood, and he wore only his shirt- his pants and boots were gone, leaving him wearing only a pair of black boxers. As it happened, there was blood splattered across his lower legs and stomach as well. He looked straight at Amy, and a sick smile crossed his face.

"Well hello there," he said, taking a step forwards. She backpedalled two steps and nudged against the wall, freezing like a rabbit in the headlights.

"What?" he asked casually, waving his knife about. "Oh, about your friend. Sorry about that, but she wasn't up to much in the end. Almost like a vegetable. She didn't scream or anything, but didn't make any other sound either. So disappointing."

Amy was still horrified into silence as he took another step towards her, still acting as though this were just an everyday occurrence to him- but he had murdered Miles, and likely had done the same to Michelle- and worse.

"You know, I never did tell you about myself, did I?" he asked, that demented smile still plastered across his face. "You see, where I come from, I had something of a bad reputation. Seems all these girls were going missing and turning up in ditches and what not- their throats cut out." Amy's back was against the wall well and truly now, and she was desperate to find some means to get away from this lunatic. The way he was speaking and acting, he wouldn't have thought twice about cutting her into pieces.

"And the police said I was the one who did it! Can you imagine that? Me, painted as this monster? I never intended to become a monster, I couldn't help it."

"What exactly couldn't you _help?"_ asked Amy, managing to sound disgusted despite the peril she was in.

"It was like this, this..._itch, _right in the back of my brain, and if I couldn't find some way to make it go away then...then...I'd just lose myself," explained Hotspur, clearly still full of glee, but his eyes showing a faraway look. "Those poor girls...they were just so pretty when I saw them, sure was a waste to just let them walk away without doing anything to them."

"Do...anything to them?" asked Amy.

"Oh yeah, I had a lot of fun, but I don't think they did, on account of being dead by the end of it all."

Amy cupped her mouth once again, purely as a reflex to the retching noises she made. This man was insane. 'Totally friggin' batshit crazy', as Zac would have put it, where he here at that moment.

"And also," added Hotspur as he took another step towards her, his eyes gleaming, "did I ever tell you that I've never had a redhead? Well, looks like that's going to change right _now_." His brows furrowed right then, his eyes narrowing into a lethal stare with malicious intent- fully directed at Amy.

She turned then and tried to race back up the stairs towards relative safety, and where Ryan was sleeping, but the scarred lunatic was a lot faster than she anticipated, and he caught her by the hair roughly from behind, eliciting a scream from her lungs as he threw her forwards roughly onto the stairs, smacking her forehead across one of the steps. Stars swam in her vision for a moment, until she was dragged onto her back. Hotspur towered over her, almost smacking his lips in anticipation of what was to come.

He lowered the knife down towards her neck.

"Don't worry, I'll make it quick- once we get to know each other a little better."

She raised her leg and thrust forwards, booting him right in the groin. He let out an 'oof' and lowered his arms, and then she tucked both legs back in and thrust them both forwards into his chest, throwing him off backwards, where he smacked the back of his head off of a wooden crate directly opposite the stairs, and then he sank to the floor, coughing and groaning, grabbing at the back of his head with one hand. Amy took the chance to turn and scramble back to her feet, ascending the steps half upright, half on her hands and knees.

"Shit," cursed Hotspur as he stumbled to his feet, faster than initially expected, before going after the redhead once more. "Fucking bitch! Get back here!" Amy ignored him as she sprinted past the room Ryan was still sleeping in, shouting his name.

"Ryan!" she yelled frantically as she sprinted past the open doorway, having to spin around and face her pursuer as he was almost right behind her, slashing towards her face with his knife, forcing her to backpedal a little more and crying out again in fright. Hotspur faced her once more, knife held in a battle stance.

"More trouble than you're worth, red!" he sneered, inching closer, relishing the fact he had her backed into a corner. "Guess that doing a redhead wasn't that much to concern myself with in the first place, eh? All those pricks were lying through their teeth. Just as well I'll make it extra quick- just for you!"

Amy continued to back away, wide-eyed, searching for some kind of escape- but with her back to another wall, it wasn't looking good at all right then. Hotspur took another step and raised the knife to come down on her, when he heard a metallic thud from behind him and his spun around to face the source of the noise when it was followed by a brief whistling sound.

_Crack!_

Something hard smacked Hotspur right in the chin, sending the scarred man tumbling backwards and over the walkway's railing, the knife flying out of his hands along with a stream of blood spewing from his busted-open chin. He fell head over heels once, and then landed atop of one of the storage crates spine-first, rolling over onto his front and falling flat onto the ground, not making another sound as he fell silent.

Amy cried out at the bone-crunching sound of him hitting the crate hard and flopping to the floor, before a hand grabbed onto her wrist and pulled her around to look into a familiar face.

"Woah, hey, easy! It's me, it's me!" said Ryan frantically as he looked her in the eyes, brushing a stray strand of her hair away to examine the wound on her forehead where she had grazed herself. "You OK?"

She nodded in response, even though the answer to 'being attacked by a lunatic armed with a massive knife and nearly being killed and possibly worse' was normally a very obvious response. He then glanced over the railing towards her attacker's body. He remained deathly still, not moving from his initial spot when he had fallen.

"Is he...?" she asked.

"Stay here," Ryan ordered, but before she could try and dissuade him he was already making his way along the walkway and down the stairs, his baseball bat readied just in case Hotspur wasn't as dead as he seemed from above. He inched closer to the still form, before carefully reaching out with his bat, prodding the man's ribs with the tip of the weapon.

Hotspur didn't stir, even as Ryan prodded him a few more times, but each time the body remained deathly still. Easing up somewhat, he moved around towards the man's neck, stooping down to press a couple of fingers against his neck, checking for a pulse. He leaned in closer, fingers inches away from Hotspur's throat.

Suddenly the man lurched to his feet in an instant, a roar gathering in the back of his throat as he swung his arm wide, the blade he had produced from some unknown place barely grazing Ryan's body, cutting open the fabric of his shirt. Amy let out another scream from above as Hotspur stumbled towards Ryan, his left arm hanging limply at his side, most likely broken or dislocated, while his right knee showed a very obvious bone fracture where it had erupted through the flesh. The blood leaking from his chin completed the grim look, the man's eyes impossibly wide now.

"DIE!" he screamed as he lurched forwards, trying to hack at the student with his knife, but Ryan had expected the assault and swung his bat, knocking the blade out of Hotspur's hand, but the maddened mercenary continued on his path, barging into Ryan and forcing him up against the support post behind them, his hand clamping around the young man's throat and squeezing hard.

"Damn gringo! I'll break your goddamn pencil neck!" he growled, teeth and mouth soaked with fresh blood. Ryan gagged as he tried to prise the fingers away, but the mercenary kept a firm grip. He smacked his balled fists against the man's forearm with little result, and in the end his only option was to raise his foot up and stamp down hard on Hotspur's foot, breaking one of his toes and eliciting a sharp cry of pain from the larger man as he released his hold.

The next few moments passed as though in slow motion, as Ryan scrambled to grab for Hotspur's knife and turning to face the crazed man as he lunged for him once again, wielding a second switchblade that seemed to have materialised from thin air, screaming a curse. Ryan swung around and held the larger blade with both hands, driving it into Hotspur's stomach as his momentum carried him forward onto the weapon.

The mercenary let out a gasp of pain and surprise, that quickly translated to a choked gurgle as blood dribbled freely out of his mouth and pooled on the floor, the switchblade falling from his grasp as Ryan stumbled backwards, almost floored by what he had just done. The bastard may have killed Miles and Michelle, and was planning on doing the same to the other two, but he was still a human being. Not one of those zombies.

_Oh God!_

Hotspur looked up at Ryan in the eye directly, one more defiant sneer crossing his features.

"Damn...never though a no-good...kid would...do me...in..."

And with that, he finally slumped forwards and crashed face-first onto the dusty floor, blood pooling beneath his form. Ryan almost lost his footing, collapsing against a nearby stack of crates and turning white as a sheet, even as he heard frantic footsteps making their way down to him.

"Ryan! Ryan, on my god!" spluttered Amy as she practically threw her arms around him, nearly knocking them both onto the ground. Ryan was just about able to remain on his feet, and when she saw his state she immediately drew away in concern. "Ryan?"

"I killed him," whispered Ryan as he looked past her towards the sprawled corpse of Hotspur.

"He was going to do the same to you, Ryan."

"But he was still a person!" responded Ryan as he continued staring at the body. "He wasn't one of those brainless creatures walking about out there. He was a flesh and blood person!" He sighed and lowered his head, even as Amy backed away, unsure of how to approach this situation. There was another long silence, before he finally rose to his feet and walked over towards the still form of Miles, not too far away. He looked down at his friend's body, and sighed once more.

"Damn it," he spat eventually, "getting knifed in the guts just because he was trying to protect her. Guess that's why chivalry's dead," he then joked in a morbid fashion, before he moved over to the still-open doorway and peered inside, his face grim. He let out a disgusted sigh and stepped away, lowering his head as he did so.

"Don't look in there," he said quietly, closing the door to give Michelle some kind of dignity in death. "Damn it, that bastard really did a number on her." Amy lowered her own head, but even from where he was stood Ryan could tell that she was on the verge of breaking down then and there. Understandable really when he considered the circumstances.

"Come on," he finally said. "We have to get out of here, keep going."

"Wait, we're just going to leave them here?" she asked suddenly, waving a hand over Miles' body. Ryan sighed before answering.

"Well there isn't exactly anyone left to give them a decent burial, is there?" he asked in a prickly manner. She turned her head away, feeling like a fool for suggesting something like that, and he sighed to recompose himself. "Look, we shouldn't waste anymore time," he then added. "Come on, the sooner we get out of here the better."

* * *

Back at the eastern edges of the city, Corporal Adam Davies stood at the barricade, looking over towards the vista of Raccoon City in the near distance, smoky pillars reaching up towards the sky like the fingers of some dark God. Though he felt as though that any kind of God would have forsaken the city considering what he had seen along with Sergeant Leland not too long ago.

Speaking of which...Leland's team had been redeployed into the city on another recon sortie, by nothing had been heard since then- they had been radio dead for nearly 4 hours now, and their anxiety was building as a result. Some had said they were all as good as dead, whereas Davis was among those trying to stay positive- even if that camp was becoming more and more deserted now.

He was flanked currently by two private first classes, Malcolm Caine and Rick Anderson, both of them talking between one another as they discussed Leland's whereabouts and Captain Petrucci's increasingly erratic behaviour.

"-I'm just saying man, Petrucci's always had his head screwed on the right way, but ever since yesterday he's been all over the place."

"Keep your damn voice down," hissed Anderson as he looked over his shoulder. "You get caught saying stuff like that and he'll have your guts for garters. He's got the press and the Colonel breathing down his neck, so he's looking for any excuse to crack down on the rest of us."

"Oh yeah, since he had the press removed from the site," responded Caine in a dry manner, "he has to bite someone's head off. And who gets it inevitably? Us of course, the rank and file people. The sergeants and the Lieutenant get off lightly."

"Come on, that's enough," said Davis as he turned on them suddenly. "We've got other things to do other than gossip like women." The two PFC's groaned and nodded in confirmation before wandering away to undertake their perimeter patrol, while a short distance away, a few of the civilian refugees watched, perched on the fold-out medical cots underneath a large pitched tent.

There were accusing eyes watching him. Frankly he didn't blame them after what had happened, but if Petrucci hadn't given the order then a lot more people might have died. But they were still fearful and resentful, and the fact that they had to drag some of the people who had fled back to the checkpoint didn't help matters much, as did having the press removed from the site. Petrucci's head was all over the place, and it was affecting them all. Half of the men didn't have clear instruction on what was needed of them, and the other half were having enough difficulty trying to win the trust of the refugees. Half of the people wouldn't let the soldiers anywhere near them., and the other half were highly vocal in being looked after by 'a bunch of no-good murderers'. They let the doctors tend to them, but that was about it.

Petrucci had to promise that they would all be moved to a different refugee centre as a means to calm them all and put them at ease, but since all of the other centres were pretty much overflowing with other refugees, why any officer would agree to that was beyond him. He sighed in annoyance and turned away, approaching the medical tent to check on the wounded, to try and do some good at least.

It was going to be a very long operation.

**A/N: And we're done again. And we're still here, so thankfully the world didn't end on May 21****st****. We're safe- for now.**

**Yes, another long wait between updates. I do apologise for that, but things have been really busy and hectic lately, both at work and at home. Oh, and I also got Red Dead Redemption recently, so that might have something to do with it. But it's an awesome game, really enjoying it so far. And John Marston's probably one of the best video game characters to come around in a long time (up there with Nathan Drake of Uncharted, of course).**

**As for this chapter here, first off I know that the part about Hotspur and his...urges may seem a little beyond a T rating, which is why a lot of it is implied or happens 'off the page', so to speak. But if I offended anyone then I do apologise. **

**Incidentally, the name 'Hotspur' comes from the hero of the upcoming survival horror/action adventure game from Shinji Mikami and Suda 51, 'Shadows of the Damed'- which happens to look absolutely batshit crazy when you see it. And for another video game reference, the line 'the killer was smiling' comes from the Max Payne series; again, the third entry of which is currently in development. And I really wanted to crowbar in (see what I did there?) a Half Life reference when Leland found the crowbar, but I did some research and found that Half Life wasn't released until November 1998- after the Raccoon City outbreak according to the RE timeline, so no-go I'm afraid. Ah well, maybe next time.**

**Anyway, you know the drill. R&R as usual please.**


	12. The Third Day

Chapter 12: The Third Day

**September 27****th****, 1812 hours**

As night-time was beginning to dawn on the 27th of September, Lieutenant Gordon Fletcher was certain that things couldn't get any worse-

"Lieutenant! Lieutenant!"

-until now.

"Lieutenant!" gasped the young Corporal as he came running up to his commanding officer, who had been inspecting the barricade lines when he had had heard his rank being shouted and turned to see one of his men running up to him. The corporal leaned over hard on his knees, coughing and gasping for breath, trying to roll his words out. "Lieutenant...there's been"-

"Stop there corporal," he ordered firmly. "Take a deep breath, compose yourself, and start from the top." The young man stood up straight and took some deep breaths for several moments, before he began to speak again.

"Sir, one of the teams on the perimeter found something in the woods on the edge of the quarantine zone," he began, taking another breath before picking up again, "it was something pretty..unique."

"Unique, how?" asked Fletcher, furrowing his brow in confusion. Exactly what could his men have found on the edge of the forest? A survivor? A band of survivors from the city? Or something else entirely?

"Sir, I think it would be best if you just see for yourself," the corporal replied cryptically, indicating in the direction he had come from. The Lieutenant continued to look mystified, but in the end he chose to take the bait.

"As you wish corporal," he sighed, "show me."

With that, the younger man took off back along the road, and Fletcher followed after him with purposeful strides, passing by the rest of his men, who offered him knowing nods or smart salutes as he passed by. They also passed by the increasingly large number of civilians who had congregated to the checkpoints, desperate for news on their loved ones. Though official orders were to turn them away, after an hour or so Fletcher didn't even bother, many of them flat out refusing to move anyway.

As they passed by some parked humvees and a couple of flatbed trucks, Fletcher was lead off of the road and down the grassy verge, towards the edge of the trees a few dozen yards ahead of him. A few of his soldiers lingered, their weapons readied and looking unsure as to what their comrades had found exactly. Fletcher also saw Corporal Greene among the throng, as always.

"Greene, what's going on?" asked Fletcher as they approached.

"No idea sir," replied Greene honestly, before he nodded at the other corporal, who offered a brief salute before excusing himself, scurrying back up the grass verge. "Sergeant Apone's squad were at their posts when they heard something and went to investigate...and found the corpse of...'something'," he then explained, picking his words carefully. "Whatever it was it had dropped dead by the time they got close enough to take a proper look."

"'Something?'" asked the Lieutenant sceptically. He then turned his head to the side as he saw some members of Apone's unit struggling to lift something towards them, hidden by a tarpaulin covering it.

"That's what Apone says at least," muttered Greene as the soldiers dropped it a few feet away from the Lieutenant, their faces remarkably pale, having already seen whatever was hidden from sight. Fletcher felt his unease growing steadily as he reached forward with one hand to pull the tarp back and reveal the discovery. Greene and at least two other soldiers watched from over the Lieutenant's shoulder.

Fletcher moved the canvas slightly and a limb suddenly dropped into view, causing those assembled to step back in surprise. It was sleek and muscular in build, though instead of skin it was covered in glimmering, green scales- almost like a reptile- and its fingertips were replaced with razor-like claws. One of the soldiers behind Fletcher muttered a curse.

"The hell...?" whispered the normally composed Lieutenant as he hesitated for a moment longer, before finally pulling the tarp back.

Fletcher blinked in surprise at what he saw, while Greene's face suddenly turned a lot paler than normal, and one of the soldiers behind them backed away in horror, barely registering what lay before them. After the second man covered his mouth and began to let out retching sounds, Fletcher immediately covered the sight back over and rose to his feet, turning on Greene.

"When did they find this?"

Still recovering from the shock, it took Greene a while to respond. "Only just now...sir..."

"Get it moved, get it into one of the tents," barked Fletcher. "Make sure that no-one else sees it."

"Moved?" asked Greene, still looking pale as a sheet.

"Yes, moved!" snapped Fletcher, "as in, right now, Corporal!" He then turned on his heel and quickly trudged up the grass verge back towards the tents, to get one of them cleared for this latest discovery. Greene continued to look lost for a few moments more, before finally turning on Apone and his men.

"You heard the Lieutenant," he spoke, "get it up to the tents, make sure that none of the refugees or the press see it." Sergeant Apone nodded as he turned to his men and began to sort them into their roles for the moving of this...whatever it was supposed to be.

Corporal Greene turned away from them and began to head up the bank, his anxiety building like a lead ball in his gut. His mind wandered back to his last conversation with Daniel Lindeman on the phone- what he had mentioned about the cause of this disaster in the first place. This was getting more and more bizarre by the day, and he knew fine well that Lindeman knew what was going on- at least more than he was letting on.

* * *

William Leland was in luck.

Having made his slow, tortuous way through nearly three inner city blocks, he had come across the two dead bodies lying slumped in a tiny rear yard behind an apartment block. They were both male, and they were both armed. To be exact, they were armed for bear.

They were clearly members of some paramilitary group- both men wore matt-black tactical Kevlar vests, along with olive green shirts, beige pants, and black boots and kneepads. What he noticed the most though was the fact that both men had been armed with M4A1 assault rifles, the exact same model to what he had been armed with not too long ago in fact. He stooped down and picked up the nearest rifle, turning it over as he examined it. Freshly stamped and featuring a plain finish, it featured a flashlight attachment beside the barrel, a top-mounted holographic red dot sight, and an underslung M203 grenade launcher.

_Pretty serious gear._

He pulled the magazine free, checking it and the rest of the weapon over. 29 rounds in the mag, 1 left in the chamber. Fully loaded, and the man had at least another three fresh magazines clipped to the front of his vest, as did the man next to him. These poor bastards had been killed before they even had the chance to fire a single shot. By what exactly, he couldn't tell, but he could see the savage-looking wounds crossing their arms and throats, spilling their blood beneath their prone forms. Whatever it was that had slain them, he wasn't interested in sticking around to find out.

He set about stripping the man clean of his ammunition, slotting half a dozen M4 magazines into the pouches on his own Kevlar vest. He also found a canister of explosive rounds for the M203, and took those as well, dumping them into one of his vest packs and discarding the now-empty canister. He left the crowbar behind.

He moved to the second body and nudged him over onto his back to access his sidearm at his hip, and paused when he saw the familiar logo on the back of the man's vest- a red and white octagon, crossed with a pair of swords. A variant of the oh-so familiar logo, but instantly memorable all the same.

_Umbrella?_

Everybody on the planet knew about the success story that had been Umbrella Incorporate- the many success and advances they had made in the field of pharmaceuticals and biological sciences, from their miracle healing salve Aquacure through to countless other new drugs. Quite why a pair of men armed to the teeth inside this ruined city bore their insignia was beyond him, and it wasn't like he had a lot of time to think about it either.

He opened the man's hip holster and retrieved a SIG Pro SP2009 handgun, a very light polymer-constructed sidearm that was noticeably lighter than his standard issue Beretta M9, but still used the same ammunition. He slid it into his own holster after a quick inspection, and then salvaged three spare magazines from the previous owner, along with another three from the other body. After a while, he stood back up, pistol at his side and M4 cradled in his hands. He was all set to go.

Or rather, he thought he was, when he heard a piercing scream from somewhere above him, and he spun around, desperate to try and see what the cause of the sound was. Whatever it was, it clearly wasn't human.

He aimed the M4 up towards the highest floor of an apartment building in time to see something large and sinewy pull itself out of a half-open window, before descending the brick towards the ground, clinging to the wall with sickle-like claws. Leland paused, finger hovering over the trigger as it descended for a closer look.

Whatever it was meant it be, it resembled a demon spat out of hell rather than a traditional animal. The six clawed limbs, hairy body, and segmented thorax called to mind some kind of insect, albeit one that was almost as large as he was. He didn't waste anymore time as he pulled the trigger with the being still several meters away from him.

There was a loud rattle as the M4A1 opened up, impacting against the creature's spine and spilling splashes of bright green blood, and drawing another shriek as one of its legs snapped off and it lost its grip, pin wheeling end over end as it plunged to the cold, unforgiving concrete far below. It landed with a brutal snap of bones breaking and sinew ripping, but it was still alive as it began to claw frantically at the air with three of its limbs, the remaining two likely rendered useless by the sheer drop. Leland continued to watch the creature's pathetic attempts to right itself for a while longer, and then finally raised his M4 and fired a few more rounds, exploding its head in a burst of green fluid and chunks of flesh and bone. It finally flopped still with its brain destroyed.

He didn't have much time to take a closer look though when he was suddenly aware of more skittering and shrieking sounds from the same building, and he looked up in time to see a couple more creatures clambering out of windows, and many more shifting forms just barely visible behind still-intact glass panes. Then some of them were shattering outwards as more of those things were pulling themselves free to home in on his position.

Leland didn't give them a chance as he racked the M203 open and saw that a grenade was already loaded into the tube, before snapping it shut quickly and taking aim, his finger hovering over the under barrel trigger for the launcher. He aimed it up, taking some consideration for the grenade's trajectory, and pulling the trigger. There was a hollow 'thump' as the projectile launched, the recoil kicking back satisfyingly into his ribs.

The grenade impacted against the wall just below where the creatures were emerging from, and there was a terrific crump of an explosion and a blossom of flame that took out about twenty feet worth of the building's face. Two of the shrieking creatures were knocked off of their high perch and they fell to the ground, wreathed in flames and followed by chunks of masonry and pieces of other creatures, reduced to a fine green mist and a shower of fleshy chunks instead.

Leland didn't stay to admire his handiwork, as he turned and sprinted in the opposite direction he had come from.

* * *

"So what do you make of it, doctor?" asked Fletcher.

Doctor Eric Coates from the company's science division looked over the form that Sergeant Apone's men had dragged out of the woods, readjusting his glasses for a moment. "Well...I think it's safe to say that your men may have found a completely new species."

"Right," said Fletcher, "but looking at the claws on that thing, it's lucky that they only found it when it was about ready to drop dead."

"Of course, of course," replied Coates absent-mindedly, clearly more interested in the scaly horror lying before them. "I'll have to do a more in depth autopsy before I can comment on it any further, but based on first impressions, it's definitely not something you'd see in the zoo or on safari."

"OK, well give me an update as soon as you have the results in," muttered Fletcher as he turned and walked out of the tent, a pair of his men stood outside, weapons clearly on show. Dr Coates simply waved in response as he reached for a nearby scalpel and his Dictaphone to start taking notes.

Several yards away, Corporal Tobias Greene dialled the single number that was saved onto the cell phone he had in his pocket, and waited for what seemed like forever for an answer. Eventually, there was a click of the other side picking up. By then he had walked away from the tent, far enough away so he wasn't overheard.

"Yes?" asked a bored voice. "You do realise that it's not exactly easy for me to get out of these talks?"

"Save it", snapped Greene as he glanced over his shoulder. "We found something dead in the woods, and whatever it was it wasn't a normal animal. Just what the hell are you people up to exactly in Raccoon County?" Seeing that scaled creature pulled in by Apone's men had left him extremely on edge, dreading exactly what he had been unwillingly dragged into.

"Something?" asked Lindeman curiously. "How interesting."

"No, not interesting!" hissed Greene. "Fucked up more like! It looked like some goddamned lizard on a diet of steroids!"

"Lizard on steroids?" asked Lindeman. "Oh yes, I know what you refer to now. That is something we have worked on in the past, in secret from the outside world, of course."

Greene turned around, one hand clamped over his open mouth as horror seeped into his veins, turning him whiter than normal. They were creating monsters! There was no other word for that scaly creature they had pulled out of the trees- nothing that looked like that could ever be considered 'normal'. And if they did create that thing, then for what purpose? His mind was racing even as Lindeman spoke again.

"And what of your friends, hm?" he asked in that arrogant, smug manner that Greene had already become accustomed to. "What have they said about it?"

"What do you think?" snapped Greene, "they're as spooked as I was, believe me. They've got it in a tent right now, opening it up, doing an autopsy- trying to find out exactly what the hell it is to begin with." There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, and then Lindeman finally spoke up.

"What about the press? Civilians?"

"They don't have a clue, just as well," replied Greene, looking over his shoulder. "Because things are strained enough here as they are- last thing anyone would need is for monsters to start coming out of the trees."

"Good," said Lindeman flatly, "ensure that it stays that way."

"Hey, I don't exactly have a lot of sway in that regard," retorted Greene, "I'm just a corporal after all."

"Well you don't have a choice either way, corporal," replied Lindeman, putting a mocking emphasis on the word 'corporal'. "Because I've made it pretty clear of your choices in this matter, and neither of them will end very well for you when it comes to the crunch. I just hope that you won't make a stupid mistake or choice, Tobias."

"Say what you will, Mr Director," retorted Greene sarcastically. "You try and screw me over, and I'll be sure to tell these news crews on the site exactly what you and your friends are up to."

"Without any hard evidence?" laughed Lindeman. "And trust me, if you even think of trying to drop me into this shit storm then I'd only be too happy to have my men pay you a visit. Trust me, from the loan sharks you'll get broken bones and and a shallow grave. From my boys, they won't even find the body for a proper funeral." Lindeman's voice didn't rise above his normal calm tone, but the threat was very real and tangible in his words.

Greene put a hand to his head as he could feel the stress bringing a rather bad migraine on again. It was too much, just too much for one lone person to deal with.

"I must go now," Lindeman suddenly announced, abrupt as ever, "you know what must be done Corporal. Farewell."

_Click._

"Arrogant prick!" growled Greene as he hung up and put the cell phone away again, knowing that it was high time he got back to work before somebody noticed that he was missing again. As he was making his way back towards the medical tent he'd been using as his base of operations, he could hear more angry voices from the direction of the road- more people flocking to the military for news on their missing families, spouses, and so forth.

He sighed and picked up the clipboard with his sheets of the names of each refugee on them- most of it had been typed up and printed off for him, but the rest of it was just hand-written in about three different colours of ink, some of it smudged and blotted in places. And with all of it stapled together, it was quickly becoming a nightmare to try and even keep track of roughly how many people had come in since the operation had started. And with so many more people flocking to the centre from outside of Raccoon County, that just made it twice as bad-

-he looked up when he realised that two people were approaching him, people that he hadn't seen before. Perhaps they were among those who had just arrived. He gave them a quick look over as they approached, one of them blonde and with a professional footballer's physique, the other more slight and with dark hair, wearing dark-framed spectacles.

"We're looking for our friends," announced the blonde haired one as they came to a halt in front of Greene.

_Aren't we all? _Greene thought to himself sardonically. The last couple of days had drained a lot from him, including any sense of humour.

"Names?" he asked instead, sounding dead on his feet with fatigue, and not particularly concerned if they thought the same thing.

"Dean Travers and Ben Campbell," replied the dark-haired one. Greene made a small nod as he began to look over the myriad of pages before him, looking for the names given, aware of the two pairs of eyes on him constantly. It wasn't a quick task, due to the numerous pages stuck to his board, half of them typed up and the other half hand-written and badly smudged. It took him a minute or so, but after a quick double check, he didn't see either of those names.

"Sorry gentlemen, there's no-one by those names here," he stated, and he could sense the disappointment in the air.

"Check again," the blonde one said instead, "they're both members of the R.P.D, if that's any help." Greene managed to disguise an annoyed sigh as he gave the list a quick once over, knowing full well that if the names weren't there first time, they wouldn't magically appear on the second attempt. Some people had already asked him nearly five times to check his magic list again.

"Sorry sir, no-one of those names here," the Corporal stated calmly, not letting any of his annoyance filter out. The blonde man gritted his teeth.

"Check"-

"Travis," hissed his companion, putting a hand on his shoulder. The one known as Travis bit his lip in contemplation, and gave Greene one last glance. "Thank you," the dark haired one said finally, and then the two of them turned and trudged back towards the main centre.

Greene sighed as he watched them go, wishing that he was in a somewhat better mood to be doing this, but with Lindeman and his ambiguous words constantly hanging over his head, that wasn't going to be happening anytime soon.

His papers began to rustle nosily, and he looked around to see a quartet of helicopters scream overhead- two of them UH-60A Blackhawks and the others civilian models as they headed out towards the city to search for any survivors. But they were passing too low and the downdraft from the larger military choppers ended up blowing over one of the parked cars that had been driven in by some of the recent arrivals, putting out its windows and setting off the alarm.

Greene watched the crowd milling around it for a few moments, before he finally began to approach to help his comrades move the damned thing out the way.

* * *

Footsteps echoed across the bare floor as the three figures entered, the man in the uniform of the R.P.D leading the way, sweeping his sawn-off shotgun back and forth as he made sure that the store was clear. The shelves and counters surrounding them were laden with TV's, radio sets, speakers, and many other electrical appliances. Steven and Kelly followed behind him quietly, glancing around at their new surroundings.

The place showed no signs of the chaos outside which was ravaging the city- everything was in its rightful place, and even the cash register was in its intended spot, and the store's front door and windows were shielded with security bars and a shutter, leaving the building fairly well fortified. It seemed likely that the store's owner was away on holiday, if the padlock on the back door was any indicator. Lucky for some.

"Get comfortable people, we'll be here for God knows how long," the police officer stated blankly as he turned away and made himself busy checking through the rooms behind the counter. Kelly and Steven looked at one another and shrugged- they'd only known this man for 5 minutes and already they didn't quite know what to make of him.

"Here, found some sleeping bags and sheets," he announced suddenly as he emerged into view once again, dumping a rolled-up sleeping bag down on the floor inside the doorway into the storeroom. "It's not the Ritz but it's better than nothing." Steven didn't say anything, as even though this building seemed secure enough, after that last scare from those bug creatures he was sceptical that they would be safe here for very long either.

"Look," began Steven, "thank you for helping us out back there officer"-

"Bristol. Lenny Bristol."

"Officer Bristol," continued Steven, "I know that we could never repay you for helping us out, but I can't help but voice my concerns over just sitting in one place and waiting for help to come- even if it is coming."

"Well, tough."

Steven blinked in surprise and glanced back at Kelly as if looking for some show of support from his companion. She looked somewhat uncertain, still shaken from that encounter with those bug-like creatures with the clawed limbs. Even Steven was finding it hard to try and convince himself they had been real, though the green fluid splashed across the front of his person was proof enough.

"I mean, what if those things find us and break the doors down?" he tried.

"Well that's why I have these," Lenny replied bluntly, displaying his sawn-off, as well as the handgun holstered at his hip. "Certainly better than a fire axe," he then added, pointing towards the blood-soaked weapon that Steven had taken from the Apple Inn, now currently propped up against the front counter.

Steven just sighed and turned away from Lenny as the officer finished laying out two sleeping bags and some sheets to make an impromptu sleeping area. Kelly had sat herself down on a wooden stool she had found in one of the smaller rooms out back. Despite the fact one leg was slightly shorter than the others, she was glad to just be able to sit down after recent events.

"You OK?" he asked, for what must have been the eighth time in the last hour or so. She pinched the bridge of her nose for a moment before finally offering a slight nod.

"I'm fine," she said. "Just glad to join up with someone who actually has guns and ammo," she added, motioning over towards Lenny who had finished setting up the sleeping arrangements and had now scooted a stool over in front of the counter, sitting himself down as he watched over the front door with his sawn off readied. Watching for danger, Steven realised, even if that door was covered with at least two inches of steel.

"But still," Kelly continued, "don't you think he seems a bit...frazzled?" Steven glanced over towards Lenny, and saw the bags under his eyes, the slump of his shoulders- the signs of serious fatigue. But the manner of his actions- cold, blunt and impatient, suggested something more as well. The air of a man who was having a very hard time trying to keep going- towards whatever waited for them on the horizon.

"You're right," nodded Steven, keeping his voice low. "But considering what the R.P.D must have been through, who can blame him?"

"You do realise I can hear every word you're saying," said Lenny suddenly, making the other two jump at the suddenness of his words. "And you're right- after what happened at that barricade on Raccoon Street the other day I might be the only cop left alive in this damned city, so I'd prefer it if you stopped acting as though we have this under control- as we very clearly don't." He hadn't turned to face them at all during the whole tirade, keeping his eyes fixed on the front door instead.

Steven shook his head slightly and moved around to stand in beside Lenny, determined to try and get his point across to Lenny. "Look, Lenny, I'm sorry if we come across as being insensitive. We're not telling you how to do your job, but if you are the only police officer left in the city, then you're the only one in any position to try and save someone from this whole mess"-

Steven was pretty sure that was the moment he had crossed the invisible line. The one between a heated argument and a full-blown confrontation.

In an instant Lenny had turned, grabbed Steven by the front of his shirt, pulled him around and slammed him against the counter, pinning him in place using his own bodyweight. Then he had ripped his handgun free from his hip holster and had it pressed against Steven's cheek, hard enough to make the Englishman's eyes water.

"You have no idea what it was like!" the officer half-screamed, his teeth gritted. Kelly just stood by, eyes and mouth wide in horror. "Those things just washed over us like a tsunami, and there wasn't a damned thing that we could do! I'd known most of those men for years, and I had to watch them torn into pieces and eaten alive!"

"Stop it! Please!" wailed Kelly, powerless to do anything.

"You have no fucking idea, do you? I'm the only one left! Do you really think that my badge matters to me anymore? That the oath I took is worth one jot in this damn Necropolis?" Steven only managed a strangled gasp in his current predicament, his hands trying to force Lenny off of him, but the police officer was much stronger than him.

"I mean, I wasn't even there for my family! What kind of police officer am I when I can't even protect the ones I love?"

"STOP IT!"

Lenny finally relented and stepped away, releasing his hold on Steven as he did, letting his handgun clatter to the floor nosily. He fell to his knees and broke down into a series of wracking sobs, as Steven straightened himself up and held a hand to his cheek, an angry bruise gradually spreading across his skin from where the handgun's barrel had been pressed against the skin. Lenny's mournful sobs began to fill the entire building now, as Kelly slowly approached him, resting a hand on his shoulder.

"I went through the school," he managed to sob, "those poor kids. Those poor damned kids! They didn't deserve something like that! None of us did...no-one did"-

He began to break down once more, and this time Kelly embraced him fully, never mind the fact that he was by now staining her already blood-drenched shirt with his tears. She held a hand to the back of his head as he continued to bawl, almost like a toddler who had fallen and scathed his knees, only to be comforted by his mother. But both people involved were grown adults, and Lenny may full well have been in the middle of a nervous breakdown.

Steven watched from the sidelines, lowering his head as Lenny's sobbing continued, Kelly giving him a sad look.

* * *

Elsewhere on the eastern fringes of Raccoon City, Anna Bristol continued to hold onto her young son as the two of them were crouched in a darkened tool shed just outside of a towering apartment block- one which had been severely weakened by both fire and the articulated truck that had ploughed through its front wall, leaving it to lean dangerously to the side, propped against the building beside it, threatening to cave in at any moment.

Anna's cheeks were stained with dirt and the damp tracts of recently-shed tears, flinching or holding onto her son tighter whenever she heard another moan from outside, or some other sound- a random scream, or a sudden gunshot, showing that some other people were at least still alive. Ever since they had escaped from their home, they had been constantly on the move, desperate to try and stay ahead of the hordes trailing close behind, pouring out of the alleys and the open doorways.

But she could only go so far, and so she had chosen for them to take refuge in this dark shack, at least for a while. The door had a deadbolt on it, but she urged Lewis to remain as quiet as possible, in case they attracted anymore attention to themselves.

"Mommy," asked Lewis suddenly, "how long are we going to stay here?"

Anna moved a few strands of strawberry blonde out of her face and offered a weak smile to her son. "Soon honey, soon."

"How soon?"

"Very soon, I promise," she assured him, trying to put his innocent questioning at ease.

"Mommy, are the very bad men still out there?" he then asked, and his mother only offered a stiff nod.

"Yes Lewis," she said bluntly. "The very bad men are still out there. They still want to hurt everyone they can find. We have to hide from them now, until they go away again."

"But mommy, we can't hide forever," Lewis continued. "It's like daddy says, none of the bad men he chases can't hide forever." His mother blinked, surprised by the simple nature of his observation. He was right- they couldn't just sit here in the dark forever and wait for whatever was meant to happen next in a situation like this.

"You're right honey," she whispered, a smile growing on her face again. "You know, I'm so proud of you," she then added, ruffling his hair. "Stay right here, sweetie, I'm going to make sure that its safe outside."

With that, she turned away from Lewis and rose to her feet, putting her ear against the door to check for any noise from outside. Having been married to a cop for some years, she knew the basics of checking for any intruders or potential attackers on her property, including footsteps, deep breathing, and the like. When she heard nothing, she carefully slid the deadbolt back out of place, and then opened the door a crack, seeing nothing outside. She pushed the door open further-

-and then immediately pulled the door shut again when she saw the back of what used to be a local mailman, his uniform tattered and ripped in many places. The overwhelming stench of rotted flesh and blood filled her nostrils, and she was just about able to clamp her hand over her mouth to suppress the gag reflex.

"Mommy?"

She turned to face her son, his face as innocent as ever. Far too innocent to be exposed to the horrors that waited just outside the door. "Is there something wrong?"

"No honey, everything's fine," she smiled, suppressing her fear to remain brave in front of her little boy. "I just need to take care of the bad man standing outside so we can leave, but I need you to do one thing for me, OK?" She moved forward and put her hands on his cheeks, so he had his undivided attention.

"I need you to cover your ears, and not take your hands away until I come back for you, OK?"

"OK, mommy," Lewis replied.

"OK honey," smiled Anna as she stood back up, carefully picking up a heavy-looking wrench that had been lying a few feet away on one of the shelves. "Cover your ears now, and stay quiet until mommy returns, ok?" The boy nodded and covered his ears with the palms of his hands, turning away as his mother opened the door and stepped outside once again.

Lewis was in his own little world as he sat on the floor, hands over his ears, humming one of his favourite nursery rhymes to himself, the same one his daddy would always sing to him most nights. He paid little to no attention to the sound of something heavy hitting the ground outside, or of his mother's strained noises, the same sound she would make when they all played softball in the park, while taking a good swing at the ball.

He wondered if this was all another game- and that daddy would come back to them by the end of the night with that huge smile on his face as he always did, before picking his son up and spinning him around the room while they both laughed in joy. But he hadn't seen daddy since the night before, and mommy had looked on the verge of crying since they had left their home, fleeing from the bad men dressed all in red. At least, he thought they were wearing red clothes.

A second later, and then his mother reappeared inside the shack, dropping the wrench with a loud clang. The front of her shirt and her face was marked with what looked like tomato ketchup, but despite that she smiled lightly as she removed his hands from his ears.

"It's ok honey, we can go now," she whispered, before taking hold of him and lifting him up again, cradling him carefully in her arms.

"Are we going to see daddy now?"

"Yes, yes we're going to go and see daddy," she insisted with a nod and a smile, though tears were gathering in the corners of her eyes.

"Mommy, why are you crying?" he asked.

"I'm not crying honey," she whispered, "I'm not crying."

They both left the shack slowly, his mother making sure not to go anywhere near the fallen body of one of the very bad men, the back of his head partially missing and what looked like a large puddle of ketchup pooling underneath his face. The mother and her child had left the scene seconds later, as she continued on towards supposed salvation.

* * *

Ryan pinched the bridge of his nose as they came to a halt in one of Raccoon's numerous back alleyways, Amy slowing to a halt behind him. In his right hand he held the handgun that had previously been used by Juan Hotspur, and slung over one shoulder was a satchel bag that he had dug out of one of the warehouse lockers, and inside he had stuffed other items they had taken from his body (his dead body, his mind corrected), including distress flares, military rations (better than nothing), and spare ammo for the pistol. He had left the heavy assault rifle behind, as he only had basic knowledge of using a handgun anyway, and taking the rifle would likely end with blowing his own head off.

He knew that looting a dead man's items was a pretty low thing to do. But that man had slain Miles in cold blood, and done worse to Michelle- powerless to fight back, he had done things to her that would have fitted right in with one of those horrific genocide wars in the developing world that one always heard about on the news stations. They had thought him their saviour when they first came across him- but in reality he was an unstable psychopath that would have murdered them all if he had the chance to. And in the middle of this disaster, who would have realised?

"Ryan?" Amy asked in a concerned manner as she put a hand on his shoulder.

"I should have known," he said out of the blue, "the second I saw that smile on his face. Cold as ice. He was probably worse than those real monsters out there"-

"Ryan, you had no idea of knowing that"-

"Right, and now Miles and Michelle are both dead!" he snapped irritably as he turned to face her directly. "I couldn't do a damned thing to help them, because I was too busy catching up on my beauty sleep!"

"Ryan!"

"This just feels like a huge waste of time as well!" he added, turning away and tossing the handgun he had just stolen to the ground, bringing his hands up to his head. "I'm sorry, but this is too damned much. I couldn't help Grant, and now Michelle and Miles are both dead too! Could I really have helped them, if I hadn't been asleep at the time?"

"Ryan, torturing yourself over the maybes and what ifs!" Amy snapped suddenly, as she pulled him around by his shoulders and gave him a sharp slap to the face to shut him up. Indeed he was too shocked to say anything else. "You can't change what's been and gone, but I'm still here, Ryan. You can still keep me safe."

"Amy," was all he said initially, surprised by what she had said, but it had lifted his spirits somewhat, and he offered a slight smile as she touched her tiny fingers to his warm cheek. Certain that he was visibly blushing now, he made sure to turn his neck away so she didn't see it.

"OK," he said before taking a deep breath, "if you can keep a smile on things, then I will too. For our sake. And for the fallen too- Grant and everyone else from the campus. The least we can do for them is to get out of here in one piece."

"Sure," she smiled.

"OK, I have no idea what we're doing in the long run, but we should at least pick a direction and take it, try and get out of the city," he explained carefully, "it certainly beats just waiting around for the cavalry to come through...if they are coming in the end."

She didn't offer a verbal reply, but he could tell by the hopeful light in her blue eyes that she agreed with him. He knew then and there that he'd get this girl out of Raccoon City, no matter what it took. He indicated for her to follow, and then he lead his way out of the alleyway and out onto an open street.

The destruction here wasn't as readily apparent as elsewhere in the town, but he could still see the pools of dried blood here and there on the sidewalks, see chunks of flesh and severed limbs; saw the shattered store fronts and broken doors. But he saw and heard no zombies, so he was glad for that at least. He led Amy down the road, peeking over his shoulder constantly to check for any zombies that might have been following at a distance. But they were completely safe in this open street- which seemed a bit too good to be true for his liking.

But their advance was halted anyway by the fact a school bus had crashed in a horizontal manner to block the entire width of the street, stopping them from going any further than way. With a sigh, Ryan glanced around and saw a door not too far away, the sign above it reading 'Central Raccoon Dog Kennels and Grooming', the writing beneath the main title reading _'The ideal place to have your best friend kept safe and sound and tidy!' _Beside the slogan hung a cartoony depiction of a dog with its tongue hanging out.

"Come on," said Ryan as he tried the door and saw that it was miraculously unlocked. "We should be able to take a shortcut through this building into a back alley, get into the next street from there. It'd be a hell of a lot quicker than going backwards and going around that way." Amy just nodded to show that she agreed; that she trusted him entirely.

_I just hope it isn't misplaced._

The door creaked open and jangled a bell that was hanging from the top frame, making them both jump a little in shock. Ryan sighed and shook his head as if to say _nice start, _before looking around the waiting area/reception they were in. It was fairly bland, save for the table with several magazines and local papers on top of it, and the green padded seats used for the waiting visitors. Somewhere nearby Ryan could detect the stench of what could have been a combination of spilled blood and wet dog, and he shuddered at the prospect of what they might face inside the kennels. Part of his gut was telling him that this was a very bad idea.

But it was too late to back out now, and he wanted to keep a brave face on, even if Amy looked on the verge of turning around and running like hell back out onto the open street. He moved forward and rounded the reception desk, pushing open the door behind it that read 'Staff Only'. As he stuck his head into the corridor beyond, that stench from beforehand was twice as bad, and he drew back slightly before pushing onwards. His pulse rate began to increase somewhat.

They were now stood in a rather drab-looking corridor, a sign on the wall before them showing the fire exit was to their right, and he began to lead Amy in that direction, not particularly wanting to explore the rest of the building for fear of the unknown. As they walked on, they passed by a supply closet that was tightly shut, and they kept it that way as something red had already pooled underneath the door, almost fully dried.

Soon enough, the corridor turned a corner and opened up into the kennels area, a wide space featuring two separate aisles with half a dozen pens on each side, for a total of twenty four pens. Ryan peered into one of the open pens, and saw that it was empty, save for the empty bowls and the old blanket that no doubt served as bedding for the canine occupants. He then peered inside the next few pens, that rancid smell from beforehand now coming back twice as bad as he found the body of a small dog laying in the centre of the floor, blood having long pooled beneath its tiny form, one side of its stomach ripped out messily.

"Oh God," whispered Amy from behind him as she held a hand to her mouth, turning away but the horrific sights would continue as another dog, a larger breed, lay in the opposite pen, most of its skin and fur ripped away and eaten. It would be repeated all through the kennels though, as they could count at least another 7 deceased canines, all brutalised and killed in the same manner. The smell of blood and other substances was becoming overwhelming now, and Ryan knew they had to keep on moving.

"Come on," he said as he pulled on her hand gently, "this way." He led the way down the aisle once more, towards the green sign that showed the fire exit directly ahead.

Something clattered to the ground behind them and they both nearly jumped out of their skin as they spun around to face towards the way they had come. What used to be the building's janitor, his grey overalls now smeared with dried blood and other substances, his eyes now dead and empty, lips cracked and dry, one side of his neck bitten into. Now he ranked among the countless zombies that had flooded their former home, only eager to eat his endless fill of human flesh. At his feet lay the old mop that he had knocked over in his clumsy advance.

"Get behind me," ordered Ryan, and Amy did just that, as he raised his trembling arms and pointed the handgun as straight as he could manage. The fiend was still at least 20 yards away, but it would close that distance sooner or later with each shaky step it took. He took a deep breath, trying to remember the advice given to him at the range by Uncle Pete. It was so long ago now, but he was determined not to let it fail him now.

_Squeeze, don't pull it, you'll knock your aim off. Even a few millimetres can be fatal-_

"Squeeze, not pull," he whispered to himself, as his finger curled around the trigger, and then applied the necessary pressure.

BANG!

The gunshot was much, much louder than he had expected in such a confined area, as was the flash of the gunpowder igniting as the bullet was propelled towards its intended target. Amy let out a tiny yelp that was quickly masked by the sudden dry gasp from the zombie's lips as the bullet burrowed itself through the former man's right eye and out the back of his head in a gory display of blood and chunks of skull. A second later, he hit the ground with a noticeable and wet 'smack' sound.

But that would soon be the very least of their concerns.

Suddenly, the corpse of the Doberman in the pen beside them suddenly rolled onto its feet and swung around to face them, its bare skull fixing them with a death glare and a throaty growl from the back of its blood-slicked throat. All through the pens all the other dogs that clearly weren't as dead as they had been moments ago suddenly began to roll onto their own feet as well, and within a few seconds they suddenly had nearly a dozen pairs of eyes fixed on them, a chorus of growls and rabid barking ringing through their ears. Amy looked around 360 degrees, feeling her heart rate beginning to climb steadily.

"Oh"- began Ryan, but his statement was lost when what used to be some breed of terrier suddenly burst out of its pen 15 feet ahead of them and sprinted straight for him, trailing bloody drool behind it as it went. It was preparing to leap at him when he drove the barrel of the pistol towards its head and pulled the trigger.

* * *

Lenny had perked up somewhat when he heard what could have been a dull slapping sound from somewhere close by, but when it began to sound again in a steady rhythm, he knew that he was hearing gunfire, somewhere close by. And gunfire meant only one thing.

"What is it?" asked Steven as Lenny pushed himself up to his feet, Kelly letting him go so he could move around freely.

"Didn't you hear that?" he asked impatiently. "Gunfire- there's someone else alive in this goddamn place, and they're not too far away from this place." He grabbed for the sawn off and snapped it open to check that it was loaded.

"Gunfire?" asked Kelly, but then she seemed to catch on as the noise came once again.

"Come on," Lenny said to Steven as he picked up the bloodied fire axe and pressed it into the Englishman's hands, "let's go and see if we can save someone else's life, shall we?" Steven looked a little bewildered at first, but then he nodded as his mind- previously scarred witless form having a gun shoved into his face- began to catch on. It was as though that altercation had never happened.

"R-right," he nodded as Lenny crossed over to Kelly and put his hands on her shoulders.

"Stay here, OK? No matter what happens," he explained. "If you hear nothing else and we don't come back within 30 minutes...then assume the worst and get out of here."

"But"-

"No buts- just stay put!"

"-no, I mean what if anything comes along while you're gone? I've got nothing to defend myself with!"

Lenny sighed in slight annoyance, before he carefully walked over to retrieve his Beretta from where he had been sat on the floor moments beforehand, and passed it back to Kelly, spending several moments showing her exactly how to work the weapon, from loading a round into the chamber through to ejecting the spent magazine and loading a fresh one. He left her a spare magazine as well, before he finally placed the gun in her sweating hand carefully and leaning forward to whisper into her ear.

"Remember to stay as calm as you can before you pull the trigger," he whispered, "And make sure that you know what you're shooting at. I'd hate to think that you ended up shooting me by mistake."

She offered a smile. "Thank you."

"OK," he smiled back, putting a hand to her cheek, before turning back to Steven and hefting up his shotgun. "Come on Steven, let's go and find those people." And with that, they both bundled out the back door in a hurried fashion, leaving Kelly to hold the fort, in a manner of speaking.

* * *

"Ryan!"

"Go! Just go!"

He swung his handgun to the side and fired, putting a bullet into the left front shoulder of a charging Labrador that looked like Cujo's distant cousin, sending it sprawling backwards with a pained yelp. Unlike the zombies, these dogs could feel pain to some extent and were much easier to knock back and stall with gunfire, but they were also much, much faster. Another dog dove at him from the left, but he kicked it in the face and sent it skidding backwards, its neck snapped like a twig.

In an instant the seemingly abandoned kennels had gone from quiet and foreboding to a bloodbath as deceased dogs rose from their final rest and came after Ryan and Amy en masse, utterly relentless. Though at least four of the animals lay dead on the tiled ground already, the clattering of claws on the floor indicated many more were still coming. They had to get out of there.

Amy was running for the fire exit now as yet another zombified dog- some small fluffy thing that was now a rabid beast- tried to dig its teeth into Ryan's ankle, but he bought his foot back and stomped down on its skull, breaking bones with a sickening crunch and a pained yelp, and then shot another one through the nose, reducing its head to a bloody mess and splattering his pants with even more rancid blood. Then he turned and chased after Amy, who had already pushed through the fire exit into the allyway outside.

"Ryan, come on!" she cried, waving for him to follow.

"Kinda busy here!" he shot back sarcastically as he put on an extra burst of speed as another monster hound lunged out of a pen to the left, sailing past and slamming through a closed gate, whimpering as it tumbled into a heap. He threw the door aside and exited into the biting cold of the night, but better cold than in danger of being eaten alive by a pack of rabid dogs.

He swung the door shut behind him and pulled it tight, screaming at Amy. "Run! Get the hell out of"-

One of the dogs leapt and smashed its snout into the small glass window, throwing Ryan onto his back and sending a few shards digging into his soft flesh. A second later another dog rammed its head through the crack in the door, snarling and frothing rabidly as it tried to force its way out. Ryan aimed his handgun with one hand and fired twice, putting both bullets through its forehead and splattering a fair amount of gore and liquefied brain matter. But as it fell limp another three were straining to get through, and he kicked out into the nose of one of them, making it yelp painfully.

He scrambled up and around as the door buckled under the weight of several thrashing forms slamming into it, letting the dogs pour into the alleyway, baying after them. Amy screamed once more as Ryan backed away as fast as he dared, shooting into the seething mass of infected canines coming at them, making sure to place each shot carefully so as not to waste any precious bullets. Some of the dogs tumbled silently with bullets to the head, while others were thrown back by the hits, wounded but not killed. One of the smaller ones managed to slip past Ryan and lunged straight at Amy, but she desperately swung an old wooden plank at it, the rusty nails hammered through one end spearing it through its brain and killing it.

_Please let them run out soon, please let them run out soon..._

And then Ryan heard the noise that would be their doom.

_Click._

The dry click of a handgun's empty chamber. His heart seized up, his palms became sweaty, everything seemed to slow down around him as the weapon's slide locked back into place. He froze in place, unable to do anything as one of the hell hounds growled and leapt at him, teeth aimed at his bare neck-

-and then there was a thunderous sound and the hound's head simply exploded into a fine mist, spraying back onto the ones chagrining from behind. Ryan blinked in dumb shock as the sound came again, and a second dog fell, its front half reduced into bloodied strips.

Amy looked back dumbly to see two men simply standing beside her- the closest one dressed in a dirtied and ripped RPD uniform and wearing an almost-empty bandolier of shotgun shells over his person, a compact double-barrelled shotgun that wouldn't have looked out of place in an old Western film in his right hand, smoke trailing from the barrels. He planted a hand on her shoulder and pulled her back.

"Move!" he cried, before raising his arm and pulling the trigger on his shotgun, obliterating another of the monstrous dogs.

By now Ryan had snapped out of his trance, dropping the empty handgun and pulling out his trusty baseball bat, swinging it wildly as even more of the demon dogs came at him, snarling and barking aggressively. He slammed the bat into the side of an Alsatian's head, throwing it into a wooden pallet and breaking it, before catching a smaller terrier and sending it flying in a semi-comical manner.

The officer's shotgun boomed again, and then his companion, a bearded gentlemen wearing a tattered blue suit jacket and pants and wielding a heavy fire axe, bought his own weapon down, decapitating yet another dog. Their numbers had been dwindled considerably, but there were still at least another half a dozen still pouring out of the back door into the kennels.

Ryan kicked a bulldog missing half its flesh and skin back, and then swung downwards to crack its skull wide open with a sickening 'spultch' sound effect. He then swung back to send another dog skittering backwards, where the police officer destroyed its head with a shotgun blast. Ryan could feel his limbs beginning to ache and his movements slow down, his baseball bat heavily dented and warped by the constant use. But it was almost over- he could rest as soon as the last one was dead and they were all safe-

-there was a much deeper growl and he turned to see a massive St Bernard lunging at him, its eyes as dead and white as all the rest, its fur missing chunks of skin and slicked with blood, trailing drool from its massive jowls, its teeth poised to tear his throat out.

He bought his baseball bat up to defend himself just as the animal's massive body weight slammed into him, knocking him onto his back as its huge jaws clamped around the aluminium, nearly biting straight through the weapon. He never realised that he was standing so close to a wall, and as he fell back he felt his skull smack against the brick. There was a brutal crack of bone, and he immediately felt something warm and fluid gush from his scalp.

_Oh God, my skull's been cracked open-_

He hit the ground not long after that, feeling his back and arms get lanced by hundreds of shards of glass and wooden splinters, felt the Barnard's weight pushing down on his sternum, felt its hot breath over his face.

_Amy..._

"RYAN!"

When he heard the scream, Lenny turned and fired the first shell loaded into his shotgun, knocking the massive zombie dog off of the young teen pinned beneath its body weight. As it lay sprawled on the ground, he walked up to it and fired his last ever shell into its head, reducing it to a fine red spray. As he continued to stare down at the ruptured body, Steven bought his fire axe down a few feet away, silencing the last zombie dog with a spurt of blood. The fight was done.

But the danger was still very real, as he darted forwards to check the young man's pulse. He still had one, but it was fading rapidly, and he turned him over to see the rather shocking amount of blood pouring from the fracture sustained when he fell against the wall. He swore to himself as he quickly ripped off the lower half of his R.P.D shirt, wrapping it around the youth's head as a makeshift bandage, though blood was rapidly staining through it.

"Ryan! Ryan!" shrieked the redheaded girl that was with him as Lenny laid the poor lad down on his back again, only just held back by Steven.

"Let me go!" she yelled as she struggled, "he's kept me safe this far and I won't just stand by and watch him die!"

"I can appreciate that, but we need to give him some space," replied Steven, trying to calm her down, but not having much luck based on the tears rolling down her cheeks.

"Damn it, he's fading!" growled Lenny as he helped take some of the pressure off Ryan's shoulders. "Steven, we need to get him back to the store! Help me!"

"Ok, ok!" responded Steven in a panicked manner as he moved forwards and took hold of Ryan's feet, lifting him up off the ground carefully, grunting with exertion as Lenny did the same with the lad's shoulders.

"Come on, let's get back, now!" hissed Lenny as he began to lead the way back down the alleyway, towards the store they had just left to come to the rescue. Amy followed after them, holding frantically onto Ryan's limp hand as tears continued rolling down her cheeks.

* * *

Kelly nearly jumped through the ceiling when the back door suddenly crashed open. She swung around and raised the gun given to her by Lenny, but when she saw the police officer and Steven shuffle through the door, supporting the limp form of a young man barely out of his teens into the store, it went down and she rushed forwards to meet them.

"Kelly! Clear the table!" yelled Lenny, and the sudden forcefulness of his voice compelled her to obey, sweeping the table near to them clear with wide motions of her arms. Lenny and Steven quickly and carefully set the man down on the flat surface, and she then noticed the blood oozing steadily from the back of his skull, despite the cloth that had been hastily wrapped around it.

"Oh god," she whispered.

"Someone get that first aid kit!" Lenny then barked, and Steven complied, crossing the room to the green box hanging on the wall of the store's staff room, tearing it off its hook and running back, slamming it down and throwing open the lid to expose several rolls of bandages and other essentials.

"Please don't let him die!" cried a new voice, and Kelly nearly jumped again when she finally noticed the young redheaded girl standing at the wounded man's side- not much younger than she was, to be honest.

"I'll try not to," grunted Lenny in a dead-pan manner as he lifted the young man's head up and removed the makeshift bandage, instead applying a cloth that had been soaked in disinfectant to clean away the blood and any potential infection. The man's groans and slight stirring were the only signs that he was still alive.

"Come on, come on," whispered Lenny frantically as he then moved onto applying a gel-covered dressing to the open wound, and then began to slowly wrap them around the man's head. There was still a fair amount of blood on the table top, but at least the bandages and the dressing were staunching any further blood loss. Lenny offered a heavy sigh and stepped back from the table. You could have cut the tension with a knife.

"I only know the basics," he announced to the room finally, "but that should help him out for the time being." He wiped his forehead clear of sweat.

"Thank you," whispered the redhead, stifling more tears, "thank you so much," she continued, before she stepped forward and threw her arms around his neck, the sudden gesture causing him to stumble back a little in shock.

"Uh...don't mention it," he said awkwardly, before she released and stepped back, looking somewhat embarrassed.

"Either way, it was lucky that we found you both when we did," added Steven from his position at the opposite side of the room. "I'm sorry, but I seem to have forgotten my manners," he then added, offering a genial smile behind his beard. "I'm Steven. And this is Kelly and Lenny, respectively."

"I'm surprised you can keep your manners, considering everything else that's going on," quipped Lenny, before nodding at the redhead. "Lenny Bristol of the R.P.D. Or rather...what's left of it now."

"Hi," smiled Kelly as she offered a small, awkward wave at the redhead.

"I'm Amy, and this is Ryan," the girl replied, waving slightly over her otherwise incapacitated friend.

"Is it just the two of you?" asked Lenny, and Amy lowered her head slightly before replying.

"Yes," she said slowly. "It is just us now. There were a few more of us who managed to get out of the campus when all this started yesterday, but they've all been..."

"It's ok," replied Kelly as she moved around the other side of the table and rested a hand on Amy's shoulder. "You don't have to say anything else. We've all been through a lot over the last day and a half."

"You can say that again," said Lenny in a droll manner as he turned and walked over to the front of the store, peering out through the security grating that covered the front store windows. A few lone zombies wandered to and fro, but otherwise the street was practically clear. "And it doesn't look as though it's going to blow over any time soon."

"But they have to be sending the cavalry in soon though, right?" asked Kelly hopefully.

"Who knows?" shrugged Lenny in response. "After what happened to the others, I doubt even the army would have much luck against all of those zombies out there. Most of the population's been...changed, whatever you're meant to call it. 150,000 of those bastards outside...and who knows how many soldiers have been deployed to begin with?"

"So what then?" asked Steven, bringing up the pertinent question. "We just stand around in this old store until either those things or we drop dead first?" There was an awkward silence from the rest of the occupants, and soon enough Steven just shrugged in defeat and sighed heavily. "Wonderful..."

"Hey, where'd you get that?" asked Kelly suddenly, pointing to the satchel that hung around Steven's shoulder.

"Oh this?" he asked, as if only realising himself. "I found it on the ground when we saved this lad," he said, waving a hand over Ryan's prone form. "I guess he dropped it during that scuffle. Didn't even realise I'd picked it up till now." He dropped it on the side and let Lenny open it up to see what was inside.

"Distress flares," he noted as he pushed the tube-like objects to the side, "spare ammo clips, rations...where the hell did you get all this stuff?" That last part was directed towards Amy, still stood beside Ryan.

"We...got it all off a body," was all she said, not going any further into detail. God knew she didn't need to be exposed to any more nightmares about that scar-faced bastard. "He was a soldier who worked for Umbrella."

"Umbrella?" scoffed Steven, shaking his head. "Come on, Umbrella's a pharmaceutical corporation, why would they need soldiers on their payroll?" The words had only left his lips when Amy had whirled on him suddenly.

"Are you calling me a liar?" she snapped, hatefully. "Don't you dare, because you have _no _idea, _no _idea what we've been through out there! Me and Ryan are the only ones left from the campus, and he may be as good as dead, so don't you even think about just standing there and passing off what I have to say!"

She fell to the floor afterwards and burst into wracking sobs, the recent events having taken their toll. Kelly moved in to comfort her, while Steven remained rooted to the spot, utterly shocked at the girl's sudden turnaround to bit his head off. Lenny remained standing in the spot across the room, just watching it all unfold quietly. For the second time within half an hour, Steven had incurred the anger of at least two people standing in this room. Maybe it was time he stepped back for now and stayed quiet for a change rather than bringing out the worst in everyone else.

Amy's sobs continued to fill the air. Outside, Raccoon City continued to burn.

* * *

Leland had been trudging on for what seemed like hours, through back alleyways, gutted apartment buildings, and devastated city streets, when he heard what sounded like a explosion from somewhere nearby- no more than a couple of blocks or so. He stopped in place, looking around to try and see any sign of where it had originated from, and he could see the fresh column of black smoke rising into the sky.

He took off at a run not long afterwards, skirting around the slow-moving crazies that just idled in place, waiting for some fresh meat to come into range. Having become accustomed to their movements and general behaviours, he knew now how to avoid them safely, and also avoid the main streets where the greatest numbers had congregated. Except now he'd have to risk leaving the somewhat secure environment of the back alleys for the open streets. For all he knew, that could have been another unit sent in to rescue him, or someone else who needed rescuing. And there was always safety in numbers

He burst out onto what looked like an old cliché of the ideal American suburb, rows of wooden homes that seemed to resemble something out of an old horror movie- two stories, with pointed roof gables, and a white and green paint scheme that looked as fresh as today. He glanced this way and that for a moment, crazies approaching from either direction, and then saw the cause of the smoke.

One of the homes that had previously stood about 20 yards away from him had been reduced to a crumpled wreck, having collapsed in on itself like a house of playing cards. The rest of the house- or rather what was left, was currently ablaze, flames licking away at the paint, making it crackle and peel away, the furniture that hadn't been reduced to matchsticks adding to the pyre. Judging by the extent of the damage, and the way most of the debris had been thrown at least 50 yards down the road, this house looked as though it had been hit with a missile or some kind of rocket.

_But from what exactly? Out in the middle of this damned city?_

The crack of gunfire drew his attention away, and he turned in the direction of another sheltered back alley that lead behind a towering apartment block. The gunfire came again, and then he heard the voice- a male, sounding desperate, at the end of his tether.

"Get the hell away from me!"

It sounded close, no more than a hundred yards away or so. When the gunfire barked once more, he broke into a run, legs pumping, M4 held close to his chest as he entered the alley and sprinted on, passing by the frame of a metal gate that had been savagely smashed out of its frame, but he didn't note that detail as he ran on. He passed through an abandoned courtyard overflowing with recently-dead crazies and ripped-apart trash bags containing rotted meat, showing that these things seemed to go after any kind of meat they could find. He saw that some of them seemed to have been brutally beaten to death, necks snapped like twigs and faces mashed beyond recognition, but he had focused on the gunfire that continued to bark from somewhere ahead of him.

He squeezed through another narrow passage, and then stopped dead in his tracks when he came across an entire crowd of those damned crazies shambling towards him, moaning in an eerie chorus, some of them beginning to speed up upon detecting him standing there. With no other choice, he raised his M4 to torso height and depressed the trigger, sweeping it in a wide arc as it chattered and bucked in his hands, skulls splattering open and spraying blood and liquefied brain matter everywhere, onto his clothes and his face, up the walls several feet. Bodies fell and piled up, a dozen and more. When the last body had hit the floor, he was moving on again, reloading his M4 as he did so. His boot trod on the gut of a man with shaggy blonde hair, and then half his intestines burst from the rupture in his stomach, spraying onto the sergeant's boots.

He pulled away in disgust, nearly tripping and falling into the pile of disgusting bodies, but he was able to support himself against a wall and kept himself upright, coughing as the retched smell wafted into his nose and throat. He took a few more steps forward, braced against the wall with one arm, and soon he was in the clear, past the carpet of bodies.

He looked back at the rotted bodies and sighed in relief. And then he turned back to find the barrel of a gun being shoved in his face.

He hopped back in surprise and swung his M4 to bear as fast as he could, but the second he had fixed his own aim on the head of the pistol's owner, the man shirked away, raising his arms in a submissive gesture.

"Oh God, I'm sorry!" the figure wailed in an almost pathetic male voice, sounding close to tears. Leland blinked in surprise and lowered his weapon to view the figure standing before him.

The man was only a few inches shorter than Leland, with brown hair and eyes, the latter of which showed intense fear right now. His outfit consisted of sturdy military boots, green camouflage patterned pants, and what seemed to resemble a mustard-yellow kevlar vest over a white shirt. He was holding what looked to be a heavily customised Beretta M92F handgun in his right hand, the utility belt around his waist holding up the leather holster and magazine pouches, as well as other items. Leland also noticed the emblem on the sleeve of the man's white shirt- it seemed to resemble a police force's badge, but there were some letters he couldn't get a good look at.

"I'm sorry! I thought that"-

"It's ok!" replied Leland firmly, cutting the man off mid-sentence. The poor bastard looked as though he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and frankly Leland didn't blame him if he was stuck in the middle of something this horrific. He was looking back and forth frantically now, even as Leland spoke up again.

"My name's Sergeant Leland, I'm from the Raccoon County Garrison," he explained, hoping that the fact he was a soldier would help to reassure the panicky man.

"Raccoon Garrison?" the man asked, locking eyes with Leland for the first time since they had met. Now the sergeant could see the wild, unbridled fear in the man's eyes. He looked close to tears. "You mean the military? Holy shit, the cavalry's finally arrived!"

"I'm sorry, but it's just me," responded Leland quickly, not wanting the poor bastard to build up his hopes too soon. The man in the yellow vest looked as though he'd just been told his entire family had been killed off in a car accident.

"W-what?" he stuttered.

"Look, I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news"-

"Oh God"-

"-but those things out there killed the rest of my squad, and I'm the only one left"-

"Oh god, oh god, oh god!" the man repeated over and over, turning away and clamping his hands to his head, his motions becoming more and more frantic and desperate.

"Hey!" yelled Leland, getting the man's attention. "What's your name?" he then asked, trying to foster some kind of familiarity with the man, if they knew one another's names. The frantic man looked at Leland for a while, before he finally lowered his head and whispered his reply.

"B-Brad," he began, "Brad Vickers. Former pilot with the S.T.A.R.S Alpha Team."

S.T.A.R.S- Leland had heard that name before. The R.P.D's elite police squad formed as an opposition to domestic terrorism and other serious crimes within the Raccoon County area. He, along with everyone else in the company, had seen the news stories of the team's last disastrous mission, which left most of them dead and the remaining few were soon officially disbanded by the Chief of Police. The survivor's wild stories of monsters that had killed their comrades didn't help matters much.

And now one of their former members was stood before Leland, bright as day. Though judging by his jittering manner, he didn't fit the bill of an elite police operative.

"Ok Brad," Leland started, slowly and carefully, "I know things are bad right now, but I need you to help me out here as much as you can. If we stick together, then there's a chance we can make it out of this damned city, maybe hook up with another unit and they can get us extracted. It's certainly better that just going around by yourself"-

"No!" wailed Brad suddenly, pushing Leland away from him with a sudden burst of energy. "I can't stay here! He'll find me!"

Leland furrowed his brow in confusion. "Who'll find you?"

"I don't know what the hell it is, but it's been after me for the last day and a half!" replied Brad, on the verge of bolting like a hare then and there. "I can't stop it! And neither can you!"

"What the hell are you-?"

The sound cut him off, coming from somewhere above them- on the rooftops. It sounded like a human's furious scream, distorted and amplified to monstrous levels. As Leland glanced up, frantically looking for the source of the noise, Brad's face went white, completely drained of colour.

"Oh no..."

"What the fuck was that?" demanded Leland, his assault rifle now scanning the roofs far above their heads.

"He's found me!" half-screamed Brad, already turning and running away from the Sergeant, "I can't stay here! He'll kill you! He'll kill anyone in his way!"

"Wait!" cried Leland desperately, but the monstrous screaming came again, cutting him off, and this time he looked towards the heavens to see a massive black shape leaping the gap between the overhanging roofs, moving with practiced grace despite its size. He saw it leap once more- following Brad's path- and his mind began to race.

_What the fuck was that? That thing he was talking about?_

Then he heard the whoosh of a rocket launcher firing, and something exploded ahead of him, a blossom of fire throwing bricks and other forms of masonry nearly 30 feet into the air, raining it down on everything in range. Leland cursed and ran forward, following after Brad route of escape. He could hear the man's frantic shouting just ahead, as he passed beneath where a flaming crater had been blown into the side of one of the overhanging buildings.

He emerged soon after into an open courtyard space, the edges lined by the doors which lead into the back areas of apartment blocks and other buildings, as well as number of storage shacks built from concrete with corrugated iron roofs, and a lot of makeshift shelters made from cardboard and other miscellaneous materials, likely built by the city's homeless population. Speaking of which, he could see two shabbily-dressed hobos stumbling towards him now, already driven insane like all the others. A third lay dead on the concrete between them, shot through the face, and Leland spied Brad fleeing into the distance at full speed.

"Wait!" he called, only to be blocked by the approaching hobos, and he raised his M4 to gun them down when another noise cut him off. It came from above, on the rooftops. The voice was the same as the strangled roar he had heard not too long ago, but now he could make out a single word within the sheer noise.

"STARSSSSSSS!"

His blood ran cold. What the hell was this thing chasing Brad?

He was about to find out.

A massive shadow fell from above, landing on one of the hobo's and crushing him into a bloody pulp in the concrete with a sick crunching of every bone in its body shattering. The second turned lazily in the direction of the new arrival, only for a Stinger missile launcher to be swung into its head, snapping its head back with such force that it nearly ripped clean off. The body hit the ground with a subdued thud, but Leland was too focused on the massive form that still stood over the bloody mess of the first hobo.

It was huge, standing at least eight feet tall, its shoulders and torso almost as wide with sheer muscle mass, most of its form clad in black leather, complete with a massive pair of boots and numerous straps and buckles covering its arms and upper torso. On the exposed flesh of its right shoulder and neck he could discern what looked like tentacles moving in and out of the flesh, purple and colour and writhing slightly- almost as though they were alive.

_The hell-?_

It stood up straight at last, towering over him by a significant margin, easily clutching the Stinger launcher in its left hand almost as though it were carrying a simple stick. Then it finally turned to look at him, its bare head as ashen-grey as the rest of its flesh, the single left eye a blank white colour that seemed to be glowing inside its skull, its right eye obscured- or long missing- due to the long line of surgical staples that seemed to be holding the general shape of its head together.

The thing stared at him for what seemed like an age- but was only a few seconds in reality- before it finally turned and began to move after Brad at a sprinting pace, each footfall a resounding 'thud' through the confines of the courtyard. Each step carried it several feet, and soon enough it had entirely disappeared from view, roaring in its strangled voice once more.

Leland just continued to stand there dumbly, staring after the brute, its appearance lingering in his mind even after it had completely vanished from view. He let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding in, and soon after his mind caught up with itself. The thing was close enough to kill him- just reach out and club him down with its Stinger launcher, but instead it had gone after Brad.

_It's after him...but why?_

Thinking about it wouldn't help much. Hefting his M4 up, he began to sprint after the monster in black.

* * *

Corporal Davies knew that something big must have been up when he saw the Blackhawk helicopter touch down in a cloud of dust, and even more so when he saw the figure dismount, flanked by a pair of armed guards. The new arrival was tall and lean with a thin, sharp face, his rank pins identifying him as a Major. Davies groaned.

"Watch out, the Major's on deck," he whispered to Private Drake beside him.

"Wonderful," was the response, which just about summed up the 12th Company's general consensus on Major Foster. A few seconds later, Davies turned and snapped to attention, throwing a curt salute as the Major and his escort came to a halt a few feet in front of him.

"Welcome, Major," he greeted finally.

"Spare me the greeting, Corporal," responded Foster sharply, "take me to Captain Petrucci, now."

Major Eric Foster was something of a legend within the 12th Company. Tall, dark haired and sleekly handsome, he was certainly someone who made you sit up and take notice when he spoke up. On the one hand he was efficient to a fault, and always ensured that the job was done, no matter how complex. On the other hand though, he was a little too efficient. Ruthlessly so, some might say. Some of the soldiers saw Foster as a bastard who wouldn't hesitate to sell his own mother and grandmother at market, but since he was a commanding officer...

"Of course, major," responded Davies, before turning and leading the way towards Petrucci's command tent, shadowed the entire way by Foster and his escort. He was feeling a little put-upon as he snapped to attention before the open tent flaps. "Captain, Major Foster's here to see you."

"Send him in," responded Petrucci from inside, his voice barely audible. Davies stepped aside as Foster let himself in, pushing past the Corporal.

"Major, how nice of you to drop by for a visit," greeted Petrucci in a bitter tone as he sat in the chair behind his desk, the countless reports and other updates piled high before him. He'd made no effort to read any of them by the looks of it. In fact, judging by his unkempt appearance and the smell of BO, he hadn't made much effort of anything, let alone the basic act of washing.

"Your sarcasm won't help you much here, Captain," responded Foster curtly.

"Help me from what, exactly?" asked Petrucci, rising to his feet. "I know fine well what this is about- you weren't here when I had to make that decision. That's what the military is all about, Major." There was equal parts ice and venom in Petrucci's words.

"I know as much, Captain," replied Foster as he stepped forwards, glancing an eye over the reports that adorned Petrucci's desk. "The outpost on the western reaches of Raccoon are pushed to breaking point, and at the south too. Of course, you'd know all of that if you'd even bothered reading these reports."

"Don't lecture me, you little shit," snapped Petrucci, though his words were weary when they came out, as though he had had enough and just wanted it to be over. "I don't see the point anymore. The civilian refugees have been moved on, so have the press. This place is nothing but a damned vehicle checkpoint now, and who the hell would have the sense to come this way? You can see the smoke pillars from miles off!"

Foster sighed as he took the time to think about what he was going to say next. Then he took a breath before speaking. "Even if you knew this was coming, Captain, I still need to go through the motions. Colonel Richards wants you relieved of your duty, and I shall take command of this outpost. You'll go with these men right now, and they'll ensure that you're taken back to the garrison."

"And from there?" asked Petrucci.

"You'll be relieved from duty. I'm sorry Steven, but its likely there's going to be a court martial."

Foster's words were sincere, but his face and his manner were anything but. He was as rigid as a beanpole, his face straight as a brick wall. He didn't care much for Petrucci's situation; he was just doing his job, regardless of what happened. Even if a good officer would lose his job and everything else it entailed. Petrucci sighed deeply and rubbed his forehead, not caring that Foster's eyes were lancing straight through him.

Outside, Corporal Davies stood around with the others, who quietly discussed what had just happened in hushed voices.

"So now we have to be lead by that prick Foster?" asked Caine. "Jesus, just when I thought that things couldn't get any worse..."

"Don't let Foster catch you talking like that," hissed Anderson in response. "He might be a prick but he's still a Major, and he could have you marched off in the blink of an eye." Caine groaned and shook his head just as the tent flaps parted and Foster and Petrucci emerged.

Steven Petrucci looked a defeated figure as the armed escort lead him back towards the waiting chopper, head lowered and his back bent, Foster walking behind him like the executioner taking him to the gallows. The remainder of 12th Company had ceased what they were doing, standing around and just watching the scene unfold in silence. Petrucci had always been a solid, respected leader within Raccoon Garrison- and now because of one lone event he would likely be drummed out of the military.

"Poor bastard," sighed Anderson. "He didn't deserve anything like this."

"No-one does," responded Caine, "but at least half a dozen people died on his watch. That's not something that happens without people demanding retribution. The families of the dead, for one thing. And the rest of the officers, as well."

"Come on!" snorted Anderson, "no way that all of the officers will call for Petrucci's head! They respect him too much."

"Either way, the garrison doesn't want a civilian killer in our ranks- best to get rid of him now before people accuse the rest of us for being the same. The garrison's reputation would never be fixed if that happened."

Davies sighed. The man was right- it would be for the best if Petrucci went quietly and quickly rather than dragging it out for too long, lest the rest of the Raccoon County Garrison's reputation was sullied beyond repair. Bureaucracy was bullshit half the time, but it also made the world go round, as his father once told him. He sighed and turned away to look down the road.

He started when he saw the lone figure moving towards them, at least 200 yards down the road. He jumped up, snatched for his rifle, and shouted out to the others.

"Possible contact on the road!" he bellowed as he ran down to the barrier, aiming down the straight with his M4, Anderson and Caine coming up to flank him, as well as Sergeant Ian Grayson, who was peering through his scoped binoculars.

"What do you see?" asked Davies.

"Hard to tell," responded Grayson. "He doesn't look as sick as the others," he continued, watching the figure drawing closer with each step. The man's skin was filthy and his clothes tattered and smeared with blood and other substances, but otherwise they couldn't tell if he was sane or otherwise.

"Well what now then?" whispered Anderson.

"Wait," ordered Grayson, "let him come a little closer first. See what's wrong with him."

* * *

Frederick Doyle wasn't sure what was happening to him. It terrified him, yet he felt helpless to do anything either.

It was as if he was submerged in water, his movements sluggish and drawn-out, his senses diluted, and the entire world out of sync around him. But he was barely aware of something at the edge of his vision- figures moving about, voices speaking out to him. He couldn't discern the words though.

Maybe it was because he was exhausted. He'd barely stopped since escaping the prison the previous day, plunging down through the thick trees, across abandoned dirt hiking paths, down muddy creeks and up over hills. His orange prisoner overalls were frayed and cut in over a dozen places, smeared with mud and grass stains, and his feet were wet through and through. His shotgun hadn't been fired since those crows had attacked him, and now it served him as a makeshift crutch, the stock dragging painfully across the road tarmac with each step he took.

Speaking of which, the tiny wound that he had taken to the back of his head from a crow's talons had now bloomed into something far more debilitating. The flesh around the wound had become inflamed first, and then it had become a diseased sore on his skull, constantly oozing a foul-smelling green pus. But he hadn't realised any of this. He'd been utterly focused on finding his way to safety, always trudging on ahead. He'd barely stopped walking for the last two hours.

The only thing he had taken notice of was how the wound- this tiny wound, felt like it was on fire. In fact, his entire body felt as though it were on fire.

He could see the figures ahead now, standing behind some form of barrier, as if trying to block his escape. Why would they do that to him? Hadn't he walked far enough? Suffered enough to make it this far? He opened his mouth, tried to call out to them, but his tongue failed him. All he could manage was a barely audible moan, a soft exhale of breath from his lungs- the last lungful that he could ever produce.

Everything seemed to slow down. He could feel his strength pouring out of his weary body, felt his limbs became as heavy as lead, felt the motions slow inevitably. His vision seemed to glaze over, almost as though he were viewing events through a snowy haze. The voices of the figures ahead grew quieter, more subdued.

_What's going on? What's happening to me?_

Doyle seized up on the spot, his body becoming wracked with uncontrollable seizures, before he finally fell still, head lowered. The voices, and everything else drowned out.

He was hungry.

So _very _hungry.

_Hungry...hungry, so hungry...so very hungry..._

He hadn't eaten in hours beforehand either way, but now it had been magnified, increased to levels that consumed every other thought process he could manage. In fact, that was the _only _thing he could think of now.

_Hungry...hungry...hungry..._

He looked straight up at the figures at the barricade. They drew away, and one of them called out in horror.

"Holy shit!"

_HUNGRY!_

Doyle opened his mouth and let out an almost animalistic growl as he lunged in the direction of the figures. The hunger had consumed everything now, every waking moment. He wanted nothing more than to feast upon their flesh, their blood, to gorge himself until there was nothing left but bones. The hunger willed it on him, and he had no choice but to comply.

The figures raised their arms and bright lights flashed as the assault rifles they held chattered. Doyle stumbled back, his body being pelted and ripped apart with projectiles moving far too fast for his diluted senses to detect. Despite the fact his stomach and arms were reduced to shredded strips of flesh, he took another step forward. The hunger drove him on relentlessly now, towards those who still lived. He could smell their sweat, the meat on their bones.

Then one last projectile hit him in the head, and everything plunged into darkness.

**A/N: And yet another chapter is over and done with. Since we haven't heard from Doyle over the last three chapters or so I decided to wrap up his path in something that was always something I wanted to do- the transformation into a zombie. Hopefully I did it justice, even if it was only showed the apex of the change, rather than the gradual transformation from infection. **

**Oh, and a guest appearence from good old Chickenheart himself. And his latest...um, 'fan'. **

**In other gaming news, I recently played through Shadows of the Damned from Grasshopper Manufacturers, the same studio that bought you crazy games like Killer7 and No More Heroes. And to be honest, I really enjoyed it. It's got a lot of old-school elements in it (like a non-regenerating health bar you replenish by using health items), having a linear progression, and a really witty script as well. I definitely recommend it if you're into that kind of game genre. **

**Anyways, until the next time...R&R as normal please. **


	13. First it Giveth

Chapter 13: First it Giveth

**September 27****th**** 2312 hours **

Jessop came upon the camp site a lot more suddenly than he expected.

The trail he'd been walking along for the past few hours suddenly opened up into a wide clearing, ringed by a total of seven log cabins, each of which was almost as large as a modern bungalow house, and featured a wooden porch complete with swinging benches. In the centre of the clearing was the remains of a burnt-out camp bonfire, charcoaled logs lying half-buried in a pile of black ash, surrounded by a series of cut-down logs that acted as seating benches for the camp attendees. Nestled in between two of the cabins was a much smaller building, closer to a hut in size, the sign over its front door reading 'Camp Ranger'. At the opposite end of the clearing he could see a gated dirt road that lead away into the trees, possibly back towards the city.

Arklay Springs had clearly been unattended for at least the last week- there was no sign of litter from visitors or even any other sign of anyone human being there. It was highly likely the troubles of the cannibal murders had scared them all away. Just as well, because it meant less time spent on trying to find and rescue anymore innocent bystanders. All he had to worry about were the remaining survivors from the prison escape.

He'd found another two bodies out in the woods not too long ago- or at least, he hoped it was at least two bodies. They looked as though they'd been thrown into a blender- all that was left were the odd severed limb, badly chewed on, blood-splattered dry grass, and chunks of torn skin and flesh. It was impossible to tell who they were originally, but he recognised enough to know they were from the prisoner's group- one severed leg was wearing the remnants of prisoner overalls.

His mind had been racing ever since then, trying to conjure up something which could have done that much damage. Wolves didn't reside in the Arklay region, so the only other alternative he could think of was a grizzly bear. But the grizzlies in Arklay had never gone anywhere near to where people were likely to hike or camp out, preferring to stay in higher altitudes. But considering how much things had turned to shit in the last couple of days, it wouldn't surprise him if grizzly bears had been driven insane just like all those people who had besieged the prison gates.

He heard a sound behind him, through the trees, and he spun himself around, his heart rate upping a notch or three. It was a low thump, the sound of something large and hefty making its passage through the shurbs.

He swore whatever it was had been following him since he had consulted that guide map hours before. He'd heard the thumps, along with the odd bawling noise and heavy footsteps fingering through the trees and shrubs. His over-active imagination hadn't helped matters much here, and now he'd become convinced that he was being stalked. Maybe it was time to find somewhere to lie low for a while.

He began to walk swiftly, crossing the grassy clearing and passing through the central area, bypassing the long-dead campfire, heading straight for the cabins directly opposite where he had entered the site to begin with. He heard another thump, and he looked over his shoulder quickly, cold sweat forming on the back of his neck. Then there was the rustling of trees, and he heard a low, gurgling bawl. Like something large trying to gargle phlegm in the back of its throat. Then a second bawl came, clearer this time, more forceful.

Jessop began to hurry his step, and soon he was at the front door of the nearest cabin, a brass number '4' hanging on the wooden door. The curtains were drawn. He tried the doorknob, but it just rattled in place. He quickly moved to the next cabin along, just as the trees he had emerged from began to rustle noticeably.

_Shit, shit, shit-_

The second door, numbered '5', only rattled its doorknob in a futile fashion, much like the first one had. Another bawling sound came to his ears, much closer this time. The trees shook again, much more violently. Beads of cold sweat were rapidly sliding down his back now. The last door- numbered '6'- was his last chance of salvation from being stuck out in the open with whatever it was about to come roaring after him.

He gripped the knob tightly, and gave it a quick rattle. To his utter amazement, it creaked open immediately. He just stood in place for a few moments longer, staring into the shadowy confines of the cabin, and then finally shook himself aware as another bawling cry reached his ears. He dove inside, threw the door shut behind him, and threw the latch into place.

He backed away slowly from the shut door, breathing a welcome sigh of relief. He glanced around at the dusty interior, taking in the coat stand by the door, the small chest of drawers in the near corner, and the two sets of bunk beds, freshly dressed but with the clothes wrinkle-free.

And then he realised that he wasn't alone in here.

"Shit!" he cried, a little too loudly, and promptly pulled out his revolver, aiming it towards the silhouette of a person he could see in the far corner- aiming a shotgun towards him.

"Woah, hey! I'm human! I'm human!" cried a male voice as the shotgun went up to show he wasn't hostile. Then a figure stepped forwards.

"What the...?"

It was Herman Adams- though with his tattered and ripped prison overalls and the blood and dirt smeared across his face, Jessop may not have recognised him were it not for his prisoner number stitched across the left breast of the outfit. He carried a shotgun in his meaty hands, had a Beretta M9 tucked into the front of his waistband, and an M14 rifle slung over his shoulder.

"Jesus, we all thought you were dead," the Aryan said, his normal venom and aggression long drained from him.

"Pity," responded Peyton flatly, suddenly remembering why he'd slogged this far in the first place, raising the revolver and aiming it at Adams' chest.

"The hell are you doing, screw?" stammered Adams, shaking his head.

"Taking you in, that's what," responded Jessop firmly. "Everything might have gone to shit, but I've still got a duty to look out for the rest of you inmates, if you haven't killed the others off yet."

"Jesus Christ, man"-

"I saw what you did to Hector, and to some of the others!" responded Jessop, cutting Adams off mid-response. "Shot them like animals. I knew you deserved to get the needle, but shit man"-

"I had no choice!" snapped Adams in response, practically pleading. "They were sick! They were turning into those monsters, I had no damned choice!"

"Sure you didn't," responded Jessop, not convinced. "And what about the others?"

"Hell if I know!" snapped Adams. "They went their own way when we got attacked in the woods! There's something else out there, man!"

Jessop's aim wavered somewhat. He honestly believed Adams about the part with something lurking about out in the woods, after finding those two desiccated bodies and what he could hear just prior to barging inside the cabin.

"Dammit Jessop," growled Adams, "I appreciate you growing a dick and all that, but now is not the damn time! I barely made it this far, and I'm pretty sure that damned thing's not too far away from this camp. That's why I was holed up in here- trying to lose the tail!"

A sudden roar rang through the night outside, and Adams' face turned as white as a sheet, while Jessop nearly jumped out of his skin and turned around to look back the way he'd come.

"Fuck, you lead it here!" snarled Adams a she pushed past to peer out through one of the windows. Jessop didn't say anything, because for one Adams had the most guns right now and his capacity for sudden bouts of violence was well-known amongst the other CO's. He simply bit his lip instead and moved up to peer out his own window.

They could see it clearly now- the massive, hairy shape that had emerged from the forest and was now snuffling about in the short grass surrounding the central bonfire, following the exact route that Jessop had done minutes before. Then it suddenly stood up on its hind legs, and let out another burst of a roar. Jessop could see clearly that it was a grizzly now- but it wasn't like any grizzly that he had ever seen in his life.

"Oh fuck," he whispered.

* * *

The red pick-up truck pulled up at the side of the road on one of the many overpass bridges that crossed Main Street, easily the biggest avenue in the entire city, and also perhaps the most well-populated with zombies. Even after the R.P.D had used explosives to gut most of the street early on in the outbreak in an attempt to wide out the invading undead, a good number of them still remained, continuing to flock towards the largest concentrations of undead they could detect. Why wasn't any of their concern, long as it left them more targets to hunt.

"Just look at them all," sighed Harry Nichols as he got out of the vehicle and peered down the street over the zombies that currently lingered- fifty at least, and they were making no efforts to move away either. They wouldn't need the spotlights or the firecrackers here to lure more to them.

"Hoowee!" laughed Samson as he exited the truck himself, his rifle slung over his shoulder. "At this rate we're gonna be out of bullets before the dawn! What's the tally at now?"

"36 for yours truly," responded Harry with a slight hint of a smile, "and you are on 29 so far. But your little brother's coming up hot behind you with 25. Looks like Ruben finally grew a pair and manned up."

"Yeah, must have," chuckled Samson darkly. "But it'll be a cold day in hell before I let that little runt have me beaten!"

Ruben exited the truck from the opposite side, his face blank and withdrawn. Sure he had caught up majorly over the last few hours, but every zombie he killed only made the memory of that man- lying wounded in the street, screaming his head off- burn more vividly with each rifle shot and dead body that hit the tarmac. They could have saved him. They could have held their fire, saved him from the zombie hordes. But no, thanks to Samson and his father thinking with their gun triggers as always, another body had been added to the ever-expanding list of the dead.

He wanted to get out of there. Be anywhere else but here, trapped in a city filled with the undead. He looked over towards the truck his father was currently unloading the ammo crate from, and saw the dented bodywork and the splashes of blood from where his father had ran down the few solitary zombies who had wandered into their path, hooting and laughing along with Samson as he did. He felt sick at the time, just like he felt sick now.

"Ruben."

He looked up suddenly to see Samson standing in front of him, regarding him with a contemptuous face.

"What do you want, Sam?" asked Ruben, irritated.

"Oh come on, you're still not bent out of shape about that poor bastard I shot, are you?" smirked his older brother. "You can't change the past. Get over it." Samson's callous disregard for that stranger's life made something boil up inside of Ruben.

"Fuck you Sam," the younger brother hissed, suddenly getting up in his brother's face, practically nose to nose. "That guy didn't have a fucking gun on him! We had rifles and we were at least a hundred yards away from him! What kind of threat was he to us?"

Samson shrugged. "Like I said, double points."

Ruben clenched his fists tightly, shaking with anger that was beginning to pour into his body, overtaking all his other thought processes. "You...stupid bastard," he muttered, through clenched teeth.

"What did you just call me?" asked Samson, eyes narrowed. All though this exchange Harry had not made any motion to intervene, physically or otherwise, but he glanced up every now and then from his intended sniper spot at the edge of the overpass. He looked faintly bemused to begin with, but by now he looked concerned.

"You heard!" snapped Ruben, speaking up for a change, letting all his past resentment seep out. "You fucking, lead-brained, gun-nut! You and dad are always the same! You're too busy playing with your damned guns to take any notice of anything else! _Everyone _is dead, Ruben! Everyone! We could be the only ones left alive in this damned city and all you care about is scoring a few more kill shots before the end!"

Samson just shook his head slowly. "You know what Ruben, you've always been a fucking limp-dick, you know that?"

"I. Don't. Care," growled Ruben through his teeth, "I don't care what you or dad thinks of me anymore! I just want to get the hell out of this shit storm we're stuck in!"

"Yeah, well I don't give a shit what you think," responded Samson, suddenly reaching behind his back and pulling out his nickel-plated Colt M1911, shoving it into his brother's face. Ruben recoiled, eyes wide in shock, hands raised with open palms.

"Samson! What the hell are you doing?" demanded Ruben as he backed away, slowly.

"Samson?" asked Harry, looking up, and then he saw the position his two sons were in, and he cursed loudly. "Samson, no!"

"Doing what I should have done ages ago!" snarled Samson, taking a step forwards and pushing the gun barrel towards Ruben's face. "I should have put a bullet in your miserable little shitty face years ago, Ruben! Then you wouldn't be such a shit stain on the Nichols family name!"

"Samson, no!" pleaded Harry desperately, his rifle now abandoned. "Don't do this! He's your brother!"

"Why not, dad?" hissed Samson as he turned on his father, gun still holding its aim on Ruben. "You're always talking about how much you're ashamed of him, dad! I'm doing this for all of us! Those zombies didn't kill him, so I may as well do their job!"

Ruben saw how Samson wasn't watching him directly. It would be dangerous, but it looked as though there was only one thing to do at this moment. He lunged forwards, hands wrapping around the M191, trying to wrestle it away. Samson immediately turned, trying to wrench it back.

"You little shit!" he snarled. "I'm doing this for your own good!"

"Samson, no!"

Samson was bigger than Ruben, stronger too. But the sheer rush of adrenaline had given Ruben a sudden spurt of extra strength, and he tugged the weapon to the side, trying to peel it out of Samson's hands. But his brother wasn't giving up that easily, even as Harry was pleading for them to both stop.

"Samson, stop it!" yelled Ruben as he frantically shoved the pistol barrel out of his face again.

"I'll kill you! If it's the last thing I do!" screamed Samson, eyes manic, jaw set firmly. He'd gone completely over the edge now- there was no hope of trying to talk him down.

"NO!" yelled Ruben and Harry simultaneously, as the pistol came down, to waist level, two pairs of hands frantically scrabbling over the nickel-plated surfaces. Then after a few more seconds, the inevitable happened.

BAM!

The single gunshot cut through everything else like a knife through butter, and made Harry flinch from the sudden sound. Ruben and Samson both froze; each other's eyes and mouths wide open in utter shock. Then after what seemed like an age, Samson stumbled backwards, hands clutching at his stomach where a deep red stain was already blossoming. The smoking M1911 was in Ruben's hands.

"Samson..." whispered Ruben.

"NO!" screamed Harry as he ran forwards. Samson only let out a muted sigh as he crumpled backwards into his father's arms, limply, his life flowing freely from his body- literally. Already Harry's pants were becoming stained with blood.

"Oh God, Samson...my son, my precious son," whispered Harry, tears flowing freely down his face now. Ruben just continued to stand there and stare dumbly, the utter shock from what he had just done crashing down on top of him. The implications were huge, ugly.

He'd just murdered his own brother, even if it was in self-defence. That horrific sensation of murdering another human being was something that should never have been inflicted on another.

The M1911 fell from his limp hand, and clattered onto the tarmac.

"Ruben...son, go get the first aid kit," said Harry suddenly, in between pained sobs.

"Dad"-

"JUST DO IT!"

Ruben scrambled around, throwing open the truck's rear passenger side door and snatching up the green first aid box inside that they had taken from a ruined clothing store they had happened upon hours beforehand. Ruben knew that it was hopeless, considering the obscene amount of blood that poured from Samson's body, but his father was going through the motions. And Ruben knew if he didn't focus on something else he'd be sick on the spot.

"Come on son...come on son..." whispered Harry as he continued to cradle Samson's inert form. Blood had soaked his own jeans and shoes now.

By the time Ruben had returned with the first aid kit, it was already too late. The pool of blood beneath Samson was incredibly wide now, and Ruben just stood as the widening pool reached the tips of his shoes, the useless first-aid kit held in his right hand.

"He's gone," whispered Harry, his voice scarcely above a hushed whisper.

"Oh God," muttered Rueben as he dropped the green box, cold dread beginning to creep up his spine and making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He fell to his knees in Samson's blood, head hanging low. "Oh Jesus, I'm sorry...I'm so sorry dad, but...he was going to kill me." Harry didn't reply, he didn't even look up from his slumped position.

Ruben heard the soft, low moaning a few moments later, and his head whipped around. He could see the zombies approaching from down the street, no doubt drawn out by the commotion between the two brothers. He cursed and grabbed for the M1911 laying in Samson's blood a few inches away. After spending a few moments clearing the sticky fluid out of the slide, he raised the nickel-plated handgun and fired.

The first round tore off half the skull of a teenager in a baseball cap and red shirt, and he slumped to his knees and then onto his face without another sound. He turned and put a second bullet through the left eye of a blonde-haired man, blowing his brains out the back of his head. A third shot took the head clean off a slight woman in a red dress, and a fourth took out the jaw of a taller man in a spray of blood and broken teeth. Two more shots dropped two last zombies, and then he was forced to drop the M1911, the spare ammo clips being on Samson's person or inside the truck.

He grabbed up his S75 instead, not needing to aim through the scope at such extreme close range. Still in a crouched position, he fired, and the .303 round took off the head of a man in a ripped dinner suit, and he quickly pulled the bolt back to eject the spent shell casing. Another zombie, a rather frail-looking woman in jogging gear, came after him at a more hurried pace, and he quickly sighted and fired, the round blowing off the right side of her face and sending her spinning to the floor. He racked the bolt once again.

BANG!

Another gunshot sounded, much louder than before, and he felt a hot searing pain rip through the left side of his neck. He froze in place, only vaguely aware of the hot liquid that seeped out of the hideous wound ripped through his neck. He clamped a hand to the wound, feeling an obscene amount of blood seeping out between his fingers. He fell back, going into shock, the world taking on a rather subdued state as time flowed more serenely, the end surely coming. He looked up at the approaching zombies, reaching out for him with stiff arms, mouths opening and closing slackly.

"W-what...?" he tried to ask.

The second gunshot only lasted for an instant, before he was plunged into eternal darkness smothering his sense.

Ruben fell back onto the tarmac, the back of his skull shot out, leaking blood freely. The shot had come from Harry's own handgun, a cobalt-painted Beretta M9 handgun. There were tears in his eyes still. Harry had taken no pride or satisfaction in the act, after Samson had bled out in his arms.

He had failed them both. Ruben was right- they should have left the city when the troubles started, and now they were all as good as dead. Fit to join the others.

_God...I was such a damned fool!_

"I'm sorry," he whispered, even as the zombies reached Ruben's body and began to crouch down, ready to feed on the fresh meat. He knew that the others would move onto Harry and Samson soon enough, but at least they wouldn't experience the horror of being eaten alive.

He pressed the barrel of the M9 against Samson's head and fired, spraying himself with blood and brain tissue. "I'm sorry," he repeated, as he ensured his second son would never come back as one of those soulless monsters. And with that, only himself was left.

"I'm sorry," he said for the last time, as he pressed the barrel against the side of his own head, and only hesitated for a moment longer before pulling the trigger. Moments later, the zombies stooped down to feed.

Another family lost in the madness of Raccoon City. Another horrific tragedy.

* * *

"Damn it, it's got our scent!" hissed Adams as he pulled Jessop away from the window. The bear grunted loudly, and then began to pad towards them, following the exact trail Jessop had just walked minutes earlier. It snuffled at the ground a few times, and let out a burst of a roar before moving towards them again.

"Oh shit, now what?" asked Jessop, fear getting the better of him.

"You tell me, you're the CO who walked all the way out here to drag me back," responded Adams snidely. Jessop gave the inmate a blank look, even as the latter was moving towards a door at the back of the cabin, that the CO hadn't even noticed until now.

"Come on, down this way!" Adams barked as he threw the door open, exposing a pitch black void beyond.

"What the hell?" asked Jessop.

"Come on, it'll get us the hell out of here!" ordered Adams, and the insistence in his voice compelled Jessop to obey, lest he get messily killed by the freak about to come crashing through the cabin's front door. He was in the process of pulling himself through when the door suddenly rattled in its frame. Then they suddenly splintered in half from a massive force slamming against it from the other side at full force.

Then the door came apart entirely, a huge, furry mass pushing its way through the doorway, breaking apart the frame as it did so. Almost immediately afterwards, an overwhelming stench of blood, rotted flesh, wet fur, and a dozen other hideous aromas forced its way into the cabin, almost making Jessop throw up in disgust. Then that roar came again, this time much more pronounced in the narrow space.

Jessop lifted his revolver up and fired twice, the retorts sounding more forceful inside. Though he clearly saw the puffs of blood emanate from where he shot the thing in the neck, it didn't even flinch, and instead roared once again. Adams grabbed him by the back of the shirt and pulled him backwards down the narrow stairway.

"What is this?" stammered Jessop, the stress of the situation still a bit much for him. "What the fuck was that?"

"This is a maintenance passage," explained Adams, "it leads to the basement, and then there's another network of passages down there that leads us round the entire camp. And hopefully we'll be somewhat safe down there. And as for what that thing is...you got me."

Jessop began to descend the stairs on his own accord now, recognising Adams' logic in leading them both down here. That thing didn't look as though it'd be big enough to follow them down the stairwell, and they could likely find a way around it and out in the process.

Soon enough they found themselves in a dusty basement that clearly hadn't been attended in a while- thick dust coated the walls and most of the surfaces, and patches of mildew were crawling down the walls and across the ceiling from patches of damp ceiling and wall. The old boiler in the corner was rusted too, resembling a relic from the early 1900's. It didn't look as though it would work very well. Stacked in one corner were a few fuel drums, the scent of paraffin and gasoline faint in the air.

On each side of the basement was a single open passage, the darkness yawning beyond not helping to alleviate Jessop's fear right now, but there was a brief suggestion of light just beyond, showing that there was some form of electricity down here.

"There's an entire network down here," explained Adams breathlessly. "It goes around in a circle practically, underneath the cabins. We can just walk around for a few minutes and come out through a different one, get around the bastard."

"How long have you been hiding down here?" asked Jessop as he glanced around.

"Just the last couple of hours or so," responded Adams as he checked the ammo in his shotgun. "That damned things been walking about out there, trying to get my scent again. Guess it just latched onto you instead, huh?" There was a detached feeling in Adams' words as he spoke, much like he always sounded back in prison, behind bars.

_Where he should be. But considering he has a shotgun now's not the time to push it._

Instead, he reached a hand out and said, "Can I at least have that rifle back? I'm pretty sure it was mine to begin with." Adams looked at him for a few moments, and then finally handed the old rifle to him.

"There's only seven rounds left in it," the inmate warned, even as Jessop pulled the bolt back to check the magazine.

"Wonderful," responded Jessop.

There was yet another roar, and a sudden splintering of wood as the bear finally forced itself inside the cabin, its sheer weight splintering even the wooden floorboards. Soil drifted down from the ceiling, the creaking following the exact path they had taken. It was following their scent. And consequently, it was trying to follow them down the narrow stairwell.

"Shit! Come on!" urged Adams, leading the way into one of the narrow, dark passages. Though Jessop could now see the odd globe of light that hung from the ceiling, the bulbs were clearly too old or too burnt out to provide any decent amount of illumination. He found himself hesitating somewhat at the edge of the passage.

"What the hell are you waiting for?" hissed Adams, "come on!"

_What am I waiting for? Any excuse not to go into that dark passage, for one._

There was another earth-shaking roar, and then the sound of another door splintering open.

"Come on!" cried Adams, and that was all Jessop needed to plunge into the darkness after Adams, and finding himself dropped into a tiny, narrow expanse with only about two feet on either side of him, the odd globe of light above his head lighting the way. He couldn't see much detail, though he could see lichen crawling down wooden-planked walls.

Every now and then they passed a square-sized open space about 15 square feet, giving them a little more breathing room. Each was lit with an overhead bulb like the rest of the underground, and a lot of them contained propane tanks almost as tall as they were. Whatever for was beyond him, and was also the least of his concerns right now either way.

"Damn it, it's following us down the stairwell!" barked Adams angrily as they heard more roaring and baying. "It's gonna follow us all about at this rate!"

"Then we kill it!"

"What?" demanded Adams as he turned around and came to a dead halt. "You insane or something?"

Jessop wasn't quite sure how to reply to that. For one, the thing's bestial roars were beginning to drive him insane, drilling into his skull and not leaving his psyche, so perhaps he wasn't being entirely rational. But the more pertinent point was that as Adams had explained, he'd hidden in here to lose its scent. And if it had their scent now, it'd follow them to the ends of the earth. No, to be able to get away from this beast they'd have to kill it themselves.

"Look, if this damned thing manages to follow us out of here then it'd be nigh-on impossible to lose it again," explained the CO quickly, aware that they couldn't afford to just stand around talking like this. "We kill it here and now, and we don't have to worry about it following us, full stop."

"You're crazy, you know that?"

"That's Correctional Officer Crazy to you," retorted Jessop, surprised that he'd been able to regain his calmness so quickly.

"And any idea how we kill the damned thing?" Jessop glanced around, his eyes resting on one of the propane tanks they had passed by.

"We use those," he said, pointing. "I'm sure one good shot will snap that valve off and ignite the propane, blow the bastard to pieces."

"Oh yeah, and bring the entire ceiling down on your heads into the bargain!" half-yelled Adams, the stress getting to him.

"Well, desperate times call for desperate measures!" retorted Jessop, already taking hold of one of the propane tanks, struggling to move it on his own. "Help me with this!" Adams growled in annoyance and moved forwards to help the CO shift the canister, walking it over towards the group of tanks not too far from them, just before a bend in the passage.

The bear roared once more, its sound amplified within these narrow confines. The walls themselves seemed to shake from the sheer noise generated.

"Damn it, hurry up!" cursed Jessop.

"This thing isn't exactly easy to move, you know!" shot back Adams, as the roar was heard again, along with light thuds as it moved about, trying to get their scent. Then it was moving again, coming closer.

"Here, lie it down, like this!" urged Jessop, easing the canister down so it was laying horizontal on the floor, pointing towards the other canisters, so that when the valve was broken it would hopefully act as a missile, flying into the other canisters and setting off a devastating chain reaction.

But the canister was abruptly dropped for the last few inches, a hollow 'dong' sound reverberating through the passage. The bear's footfalls stopped suddenly, and then another bawling call was heard.

"Damn it, it heard us!" cursed Adams. Then the footfalls were coming again, at a more rapid pace, homing in on them. The light bulbs hanging from the ceiling began to shake, dust cascading down, shaken loose.

"Come on, get back!" urged Jessop, as they rolled the canister into place, made sure it was secure, and then backed well away, weapons raised. "Wait for it to get into position before you take the shot. We'll probably only get once chance at this."

"Well that doesn't make for much pressure, does it?" asked Adams sarcastically as he readied his shotgun. The thundering movements came closer and closer, the light bulbs threatening to drop out of their fixtures altogether.

Then they saw it. It rounded the far corner at high speed, smashing into the side wall as it lost its footing, its massive claws struggling to get purchase on the tiles. Its side slammed into the wall and about 10 feet of passageway simply caved in, wooden boards splintering to dump, several kilos worth of soil into the passage, but its travel was barely slowed down. It began to thump towards them again, bawling and roaring in its deep, throaty roar, the walls splintering and coming apart under its sheer bulk.

"Wait, let it get closer!" insisted Jessop, his rifle raised and fixed on the propane tank they had just moved into position. The braying beast came closer and closer still, clearing six feet with every bounding stride. Adams pulled the trigger on his shotgun prematurely, the discharge magnified considerably within the narrow passageway, the solid lead slug ripping a sizeable chunk of flesh out of the creature's front left shoulder. But it didn't even slow down.

"Shit!" the inmate cursed, "you'd better put your brilliant plan into motion very soon!" he added, his voice wavering.

_Just a little closer, _willed Jessop to himself, as he let the marauding beast came a little closer, close enough to smell its horrific aroma of rotted flesh and blood, to see the exposed skull underneath the peeled-back fur and skin, to see the dried blood on its massive fangs.

He fired his M14 into the valve of the tank laying on the floor, practically point-blank. The .303 round snapped the valve clean off, and then suddenly there was a hiss of pressurised gas as a jet of propane burst from the busted valve, taking off like a rocket, straight into the other tanks just as the beast was beginning to pass by them.

There was a brilliant burst of light as the entire stockpile of explosive canisters came apart in a huge conflagration of flame that engulfed the roaring monster and also took out about 10 feet of the walls on either side of the passage, causing several kilos of soil to come pouring in, the shockwave almost knocking them both clean off of their feet. Jessop stumbled back from the blast, before looking up, into the still-clearing cloud of smoke and dirt particles before them.

He felt justified, his crazy plan having actually worked-

Then the beast plunged out of the smoke, roaring in an even louder tone than previously, and swung a massive paw that smashed him backwards off of his feet, savage claws cutting open his flesh like a hot knife through butter. He hit the wooden floorboards hard, the force knocking a cloud of fine blood drops out of his mouth.

The monster towered over him now, offering a clear view of its features now. It had been a majestic grizzly once, except now every inch of its fur was matted with blood and chunks of flesh and torn skin, from its previous victims. The explosion had ripped away most of the left side of its body, exposing ribs, broken bones and punctured organs, but yet it was still alive, still with enough energy to rip him limb from limb. A long trail of drool dangled from its open jaws as it roared a victory into the ceiling.

He raised the M14 and fired three shots, all of them punching right through its bulk at such extreme short range and giving it three more dripping wounds to its collection. Then it casually leaned down and clamped its massive jaws around his neck, a brutal crunch of flesh and bone marking the end of Peyton Jessop's life.

Adams struggled to his feet, groaning and muttering to himself over what he would do to that damned CO when he got his hands on him, but the clearing smoke and dirt showed him that wouldn't be an option. The monster bear was hunched over what remained of Jessop's corpse, already torn the man's head off, and was now messily devouring his stomach and chest cavity, breaking apart bones and ripping sinews in order to get at the soft, bloody flesh.

_Oh fuck!_

He backed away in horror, one hand clamped to his mouth as he retched at the sight, willing himself not to throw up. It didn't work though, and he promptly emptied the contents of his stomach all over the floor directly in front of him.

The sound forced the beast to look up from its meal. It regarded him for a few moments with its remaining dead eye, fresh gore dripping from its teeth, before it roared at him, an angry, hungry bawl. He raised his shotgun again and fired, tearing through the side of its neck, but once again doing little to slow it down at all. It began to move, and he turned and sprinted away as fast as his legs could carry him.

His heart thundered, almost matching the rhythm of the pounding steps that came after him, in between the occasional roar and bawl as the monster drew closer. Turning around another sharp corner, Adams knew that these passages formed a rough square layout, so if he kept running forwards he'd run into the passage that Jessop had bought down by destroying those propane tanks. He didn't curse the CO though, as no-one deserved to die in such a grisly manner.

The monster rounded the corner and slammed into the side walls, crushing the wooden panels like wet paper and causing more soil to tumble down from the side and ceiling, slowing it down a little, giving Adams the precious time to get a few more yards ahead of his pursuer. He knew he had to kill it off sooner rather than later, rather than risk it pursuing him through the thick trees and undergrowth that would slow him down, but otherwise not affect the bear at all.

He found another cluster of propane tanks, and this time he knew that he had to try and direct their immense blast somehow, rather than set them off in an open space, much like Jessop had tried to. He took a hold of the top of each tank in turn, turning it around and dropping it onto the ground, repeating the process until at least six tanks had been laid out on the floor, waiting for the monster to draw closer. All the time his pulse galloped, just waiting for the massive jaws to come out of the darkness and take his head off.

_Please let this work._

With all done, he grabbed the valve of the nearest tank and gave it a powerful twist, loosening it somewhat, a hiss of rapidly escaping gas indicating that it had been compromised- and giving him an ignition source. He then back away down the passage, far enough away so that he hopefully wouldn't be caught in the blast that would follow. He raised the shotgun to his shoulder, planted the stock into his shoulder firmly, and waited.

_Come on, let's get this over with, you ugly son of a bitch._

The monster bawled again, the sound causing the walls to shudder and shaking dust and dirt particles down from the ceiling. The ground began to tremble afterwards, in motion with the creature's pounding footsteps.

_Come on, show yourself!_

It came blundering around the corner, crashing through another side wall, knocking out about six feet of wall and some of the ceiling as well, raining soil and plant roots down onto its coarse fur. It roared once more, spittle flying from the corners of its huge mouth, the limited light glinting off the exposed bone of its skull.

_Come on, come on-_

It came closer with each bounding stride, near to the explosive trap he had set up for it. It was almost on top of the tanks now, still having not realised that it was being lead towards its destruction.

_Almost, almost-_

It was just in front of the tanks now, passing into the distorted cloud where the propane was gradually filling up that small expanse of passageway.

_NOW!_

He pulled the trigger, and the shotgun boomed in the narrow passage, the buckshot tearing into the opened tank valve and igniting the volatile gases within. The spark rapidly expanded into a blossom of roaring flames that engulfed the remaining tanks, cooking them off in rapid sequence, a drumbeat of further explosions swallowing the bear up in a blaze of almost-white flames and black, acrid smoke, and then blowing it apart into countless meaty chunks, blood spattering onto everything in range.

The shockwave blasted down the corridor, throwing him onto his back, knocking the wind from his lungs as he landed hard, the stink of smoke and burnt flesh stinging his throat and nostrils. He coughed and retched a few times, yet a smile crossed his lips, glad that the damned thing was dead at least, and he wouldn't have to worry about it anymore-

A low rumbling me this ears, and he glanced around dumbly as he could see the walls giving way, tons of soil pouring in, closing the passageway off, dousing the flames and knocking out several ceiling bulbs. Realising that he was in danger of being buried alive, Adams jumped up and made a run for it down the passage behind him, making for the nearest stairwell back upstairs.

He didn't make it very far until the boards above his head split apart, raining an avalanche of soil down on top of him.

* * *

The old dime a dozen store had seen better days, the sign above the front doors long flaked and sun-bleached, the name of its owners almost illegible now, the windows barred off with rusted steel cages to ward off the countless hooligans and gangs that wandered this side of town.

The odd zombie wandered the front parking lot now, moaning emptily and gazing around with hollow eyes, waiting for the first sign of fresh meat to wander past. They clearly weren't as fortunate as the one zombie who had made his way behind the store, and was now gorging himself freely on the remains of maggot-infested meat no doubt thrown out because it went past its sell-by date. The zombie had once been a fairly clean-looking man in his mid-twenties, with cropped blonde hair and with a muscular build, except now it was nothing more but a walking corpse, like the remainder of Raccoon City's population.

It ripped away a long strip of rotted meat, its yellowed teeth chewing through the fat, juicy maggots with hungry glee, not caring on what it fed on as long as it had something to feast upon, something to try and satiate its endless hunger. It quickly devoured that portion and grabbed for another, before it would find its meal rudely interrupted.

There was a low whistling, before a sturdy lead pipe swung into its knee. There was a crunch and the zombie fell awkwardly down, its arms flailing wildly, the piece of meat still lodged in its teeth. Then a second blow was slammed into the side of its skull, a brutal crunch marking the end of its second existence as it slammed into the dumpster and then slid down to the floor.

Lenny Bristol flicked some blood off of the pipe he had just used casually, even as Steven Dreyfuss came up behind him, still clutching his ever trusty fire axe in his hands.

"Not too smart, are they?" reasoned Lenny, pointing his pipe at the zombie's broken form, blood pooling beneath its shattered cranium. "Walked right up behind him and he didn't even realise we were there."

"No, they're not," responded Steven, covering his mouth and nose with a free hand as the combined stench of the maggoty meat and the zombie reached his senses. "On their own, I agree, they're dumb as rocks and easy enough to move around safely. But in groups..."

"Yeah, noted," responded Lenny. "Come on."

Lenny had stepped out of the relative safety of the store as a means to go scrounging for supplies- food and drink, mainly, but as Ryan's wound was beginning to bleed again, medical supplies were vital as well. Though he was intending to go alone, Steven had insisted on coming with him, saying that he needed to 'give the others some space', which seemed reasonable enough considering how Amy and Lenny himself had both taken a shot at Steven recently.

_Poor guy._

As always, his family weighed heavily on his mind. Were they still alive, somewhere out there? Or were they still wandering about, having been absorbed into the numerous ranks of the undead? He quickly shoved that second thought aside, knowing that to dwell on it would only drive him insane. He had to focus on himself, on these people that he had met with, the people he would protect, no matter what the dangers.

The dime a dozen was a reasonable enough place to look for food, whereas Kelly had insisted there was a pharmacy somewhere close by as well, which they would seek out once they had loaded up on the essentials. Having gone around the back way, they had encountered very little in the way of zombies. As Steven had just mentioned, the zombies were too stupid and slow individually to be any kind of real threat, so Lenny had picked up the pipe not too long ago as an alternative for wasting his bullets. Speaking of which, his handgun was currently tucked into his waist holster, already unbuttoned for when he needed it the most urgently.

The back service door was open, and they passed through into the (thankfully well-illuminated) interior of the store. They passed by the empty kitchen area, where a sink full of dirty, stagnant water left forever unattended, and past the wooden door that marked the stock room. Though locked, a few sturdy bashes from Lenny's pipe broke the knob away, allowing them access.

Inside the shelves were lined from top to bottom with all kinds of food- cans of fruit, beans and other tinned foods; packets of biscuits, cookies and potato chips; and everything else in between. Of course, they couldn't take it all, so the main concern was what they should take with them.

"Well I think potato chips are always a good choice," reasoned Steven as he retrieved a cloth bag to put the food in. "We don't have to worry about them going off so quickly. We might be stuck here for a few more days."

"Agreed," said Lenny as he dumped a few large bags (of various flavours) into the sack that Steven had produced, and then moved onto collecting some candy bars, just to give a sweeter kick to their rations.

"What about water, something to drink?" suggested Steven.

"None in here," replied Lenny, "there'd likely be plenty of bottles out in the main store in the fridge units, long as the power hasn't been knocked out."

"Sure you want to go out there?" asked Steven. "What is there's more of those things inside, just waiting for someone to blunder past?"

"Well first of all, I won't blunder in," remarked Lenny, prickled, "and secondly, I'm the one with the gun, right?" he finished, showing off the Beretta handgun. "Look, I'm only ducking in there for a few seconds, get in, get out, just like that, ok?"

"Well would you at least scream if something happens?" suggested Steven.

"Of course," snorted Lenny, as he exited the storeroom and moved towards the ajar door that lead into the store proper. He peered inside, seeing only a general disarray of shelf items knocked onto the floor haphazardly, but otherwise no sign of any zombies or otherwise.

"OK, I'm going in," he announced, before sliding the Beretta out of its holster and pushing through inside with his shoulder.

The store was empty, thankfully, though numerous items had been knocked off of the shelves onto the floor, along with the odd bottle of ketchup and other condiments, leaving puddles of dried fluids, all of them different colours. The cash register had been left open, the inside completely cleared out, the shelves beneath it cleared out as well. Whatever had happened here had long since passed on, replaced by the uneasy silence.

"Clear," the R.P.D officer whispered to himself (only realising at the final minute that his partner had been dead since the other day), before holstering his Beretta and walking over towards the large refrigeration unit, throwing open the glass door to examine the rows of bottled water, milk, juice, and other consumables inside. He instantly felt the cold chill hit him in the face, the light humming of its motor indicating that it was still operational.

He quickly took as many bottles as he could feasibly carry in both hands, his pipe temporarily left out in the storeroom. As he turned to walk away, he heard the unmistakable hollow groan from behind him.

"Gah!" he cried, dropping the bottles and spinning around, drawing his Beretta as he did so, aiming it towards the source of the noise, towards the outline of a figure he could see slumped on the floor, beneath a collapsed shelving unit.

It used to be a middle-aged Asian-American man, his forehead wrinkled and his hair rapidly receding, wearing a blue and white striped apron, likely identifying him as the owner of the store. His eyes were as pale and hollow as his body now, the unmistakable stench of rotted flesh hovering over his form. One arm had been badly broken and almost torn off at the elbow when the shelves had collapsed on him, while the other arm reached out for him helplessly, straining to swipe at the thin air to get him.

It was pathetic almost- despite being trapped and with one of its arms shorn off, it still focused entirely on trying to grab at the nearest form of fresh meat, its mind having degenerated to no other form of higher thought process. With a sigh, Lenny retrieved the bottles and turned and walked out of the store without breaking stride or stopping for anything else.

"What's wrong?" asked Steven as Lenny reappeared and handed him the bottles of water. "You find something in there?"

"Nothing, no threat," replied Lenny. "Just another zombie trapped underneath some shelves. There was no way it could get out and attack. We've done here," he then finished, leading the way back out the way they had come in. After a few more seconds, Steven slung the sack over his shoulder and followed the officer outside, keeping a firm hold on his fire axe.

Lenny lead the way back the way they had come, before making a sudden left turn that lead them out into the open street itself. The nearest signpost read 'Harper Avenue', a famous shopping district named after one of the original founders of Raccoon City. Right now, it wasn't so famous, being littered with the dead corpses, the hum of entire clouds of flies attracted to the stench of dead flesh, and the twisted wreckage of cars, trucks and anything else that one could think of.

A few of the bodies were still walking around, though. Steven decapitated the first one that came at them with a single sweep of his heavy axe. There was a deep 'thunk' as the blade severed through flesh, sinews and bone, and then two 'thud' noises as both parts hit the ground hard. Lenny dispatched the second by driving his foot into its shin to force it down to its knees, before pistol whipping it so hard in the forehead he caved its skull in and killed it outright. It let out one last dying groan as it toppled over like a felled tree.

"Ugh," grunted Steven.

"Just come on," hissed Lenny, moving on.

It didn't take them much longer to see the pharmacy in the near distance, if the bright white sign with the red cross on it being any indication. There weren't any zombies hanging around outside thankfully, and the front of the store was still in one piece. Breathing a muted prayer to whichever God was still watching over them, Lenny hurried his pace, reaching the door before Steven did, then waiting for the Englishman to catch up.

"Stay here, I'll be right back," he insisted, but Steven stopped him at the last instant.

"Hold on, you remember what it is we need, right?"

"A roll of gauze, bottle of disinfectant, some painkillers, and something to halt the bleeding as well, I know," responded Lenny irritatingly, before turning and disappearing inside the store, eager to get back to the others. He began to rummage through the shelves, easily finding the bandage and the disinfectant, before turning his attention to the far shelf, pausing when he found an entire shelving rack taken up with Umbrella products.

He remembered what Amy had said about Umbrella being the ones who had caused all of this. If that were true, why the hell would they have orchestrated something this horrific? So many people dead and turned into monsters, and all for what? Why would they inflict such damage upon their main base of operations within the United States? What would they gain from such destruction?

With a sigh, Lenny knew that this wasn't the time or the place. He grabbed a can of Umbrella's miracle cure first-aid-spray, as well as a bottle of their safsprin tablets, yet another well-praised medicine when it had first been released some months ago. All set, he turned and promptly strode out, pausing only to grab a plastic bag with which to carry the items with. There was no point in hanging around any longer than was absolutely necessary.

"All done," he announced as he reappeared into the open street, though when Steven didn't initially respond he soon found out why. Turning to his left, he could see that the way they had come not too long ago was now beginning to gradually fill up with zombies- only a couple of dozen at the moment, but more than enough to be an immediate concern.

"Damn it, they must have followed us up this far," whispered Steven.

"Come on, we'll just have to go a different route," responded Lenny, turning back and leading Steven the opposite way up the avenue, heading for a side street that would take them back to the electronics store that Amy, Michelle, and Ryan were holed up in. If the zombies were starting to come out in force now, he didn't want them getting any unwanted surprises. With the bag in one hand, he held the pipe in the other, ready to be swung into any disgusting faces that dared stand before them.

"Here, let me take those," said Steven suddenly, taking the bag and dumping it into his cloth sack without another word. Lenny just nodded in appreciation, before he drew his pistol in his now-free hand.

"Thanks," he said.

"Well I have to be some use if you're going to keep me around, right?" laughed Steven, though Lenny could tell that it was a forced joke, based on past performances of communication. But Steven was a decent, earnest man in the end, and he was only trying to help out through everything he did.

"Don't worry, you still have plenty of uses"-

"Behind you!"

Lenny turned sharply and swung his pipe into the wasted face of a construction worker, cracking the skull open and dropping the zombie to the ground like a sack of potatoe. Two more zombies came hot on its heels- a teenage girl wearing a blue vest top and cut-off shorts, and an elderly man who was hunched over and in danger of falling over on the spot like a felled tree.

"Damn it, take down one and there's two more behind it," grumbled Lenny, before he stepped forwards and kicked the girl in the stomach, sending him stumbling back, before a savage pipe blow almost snapped her head off to the side. Steven stepped up to tackle the old man meanwhile, one sweep of the axe being all that he needed to take the zombie's head off and drop it to the floor with a wet thud. Behind them, more figures were starting to come out into clear view, drawn out by the sounds.

"Damn it, we have to move! Now!" barked Lenny, beginning to make a run down the alleyway they had been heading towards a few moments ago. Steven ran after him, not disputing in any way.

As ever, the base instinct of survival in Raccoon City came back to the fore.

* * *

Major Foster looked at the remains of the poor bastard that had been hauled into an isolated tent, and then grunted in disgust as he let the sheet covering the body drop. Judging by his tattered orange overalls, the man was a prison inmate, likely an escapee from the nearby Raccoon County jail, on the other side of town. If that were the case, he had walked an awfully long way to make it this far, only to be gunned down like some poor wretch.

"Damn it, how the hell did this happen?" asked the Major, partly in honest concern, partly in annoyance. He faced towards Corporal Davies and the few other soldiers inside the tent with him.

"Well sir, we"- began Corporal Davies.

"I mean, how the hell did he turn out like this?" snapped Foster, pointing at the covered form with an outstretched hand. "He was conscious, wasn't he?"

"H-he was, sir," responded Davies, shifting on the spot, "he was walking towards us one minute, and then the next he just went crazy, like one of those...bastards from the barricade the other day."

"Why though?" asked Foster with a scowl, shaking his head. "It's good that there were no press or anyone else here to make a scene, God knows that we have enough troubles keeping order at the moment..."

_Yeah, and now Captain Petrucci's over a barrel because of it, _thought some of the arrayed soldiers bitterly.

"What about the other camps?" asked Foster suddenly, turning towards the communications officer, Sergeant Prescott. The grey-eyed, shaven-headed man just sighed and shook his head, speaking up afterwards.

"Nothing Major- they've been busy enough trying to maintain the refugees coming in, even if the influx is down to a trickle now. The main concern is people wanting to go back into the city to try and find their families- we had an incident over at the southern centre, where Fletcher's boys are holding the fort."

"And...?"

"A large group of people were trying to force their way past the barricades, didn't get through, thankfully," responded Prescott, reading off a print-out he had been holding. "No-one was seriously hurt, though the troops had to fire into the air, spooked quite a few people in the process."

"Damn it," cursed Foster, his annoyance beginning to rise to the surface, cracking his normally professional exterior. "This is becoming more and more of a headache- stretched to the damned limit and still no word on those damned reinforcements from the 15th Company...what the hell is Richards doing, sitting with his thumb up his ass?"

"That's Colonel Richards, sir"- corrected one of the more foolish privates there.

"Well thank you very much for reminding your superior officer of that fact, _private,"_ replied Foster in a droll manner, turning away. "Any word on Corporal Elghan's fire team?"

Despite the fact that the last fire team sent into the city had yet to return(the much-lamented Sergeant William Leland and three others), Foster had insisted on sending in another team, based on the somewhat slim hope that there was a chance Leland and the others could still be safely extracted. Elghan was a solid team leader, perceptive and quick to adapt, so if things were looking hairy, they could easily pull out of the city before any harm came to them.

At least, in theory.

"Negative, Major," sighed Prescott. "We know fine well that all those tightly-packed buildings in Raccoon City have been messing with our radio transmissions- it's probably as simple as the fact that they can't a message to us."

"I hope for all our sakes that's all it is," sighed Foster. "Get a couple of the medics in here, have them take a look at this poor bastard," he said, waving a hand dismissively over the body beside where he was standing. "Jesus, maybe they can figure out just what the hell is going on in this town," he added, as he walked out, rubbing his forehead.

There was an awkward silence for several seconds, and then the others finally relaxed, Caine shaking his head in particular. "Prick," he muttered under his breath.

"A prick with rank," corrected Drake.

"Come on, that's enough," snapped Davies, waving them out. "Find a couple of the medics and get them in here, ASAP. I'd hate for Foster to take his frustrations out on any of us, just because no-one jumped when he said so." A few of them chuckled as they vacated the tent, though Davies remained a little longer.

He looked back at the body they had bought in, pulling the sheet back to examine the sheer amount of damage they had done with just a few seconds of gunfire. The fingers had been ripped away, leaving the hands as stumps protruding shattered bones and ripped flesh, blood still dribbling down onto the ground at his feet. Most of the head had been smashed apart like a ripe melon by his own fatal gunshot too, the only way that these 'sick' people could go down.

"Damn," he sighed, putting the sheet down, just as a pair of medics entered the tent, parting the entry flaps as they passed inside.

"This the specimen?" asked one of them as he pointed towards the covered form.

"Yes," sighed Davies as he stepped back to leave. "Yet another one. There's another half dozen or so in the back if you want to take a look at any others."

"No, I think this one will be enough for now," the medic responded, throwing the sheet back. "Oh boy, look at the decay on you..." he began, sounding almost giddy in anticipation. Davies just shook his head and walked out.

* * *

Corporal Thomas Elghan had heard from the missing Leland and Davies about how horrific things were in the city, but seeing it up close and personal didn't do those tales any justice.

It seemed as though a tornado had torn through the streets of Raccoon City- shattering every single window, smashing in every doorway, overturning most of the cars in the street (including a transport bus and a flatbed truck that had been transporting a few tonnes of gravel), and even toppling a few telegraph and lighting poles. Sparks of electricity fizzled out from where one of them had fallen into a puddle of water, still discharging live electricity.

"Come on people, keep it tight," he barked to the other three members of his fire-team: Winters, Abraham, and Scott. They had been advancing down the abandoned street in a wide-spread formation initially, but now they pulled into a tighter wedge formation, staying close to one another if an attack were to come. In which case, they would rapidly pull back to their Humvee transport- parked out of direct sight behind the burnt-out remains of a youth centre- and get the hell out of there. Major Foster had made it clear that this wasn't a search and rescue mission: it was purely a recon patrol, an attempt to try and figure out what was going on in the city.

They were travelling light, but otherwise were still armed for combat. Elghan, Winter and Abraham carried the standard-issue M4A1, while Scott carried a S.P.A.S 12 shotgun instead, a weapon he liked to save 'for close encounters'. Considering the tightly-packed streets they were traversing, that seemed reasonable enough. They were also shorn of their gas masks, reports confirming that whatever had afflicted the city wasn't passed on through the air.

"Anything?" asked Elghan as he looked over towards Winters, who was watching the windows of the buildings on their right side through the ACOG scope on his M4A1 assault rifle.

"Nada," he responded, shaking his head. "After everything Leland and Davies were talking about, you'd think that there'd be more...y'know, activity around here?"

"I think that's what we're all hoping for," retorted Scott, his shotgun's muzzle expertly nosing into every shadow and open doorway they passed by. Who knew what could have been lying just out of sight? A single, fleeting lapse in paying attention could end pretty badly for any of them.

"Come on, let's go a little father in," ordered Elghan, taking command as he could sense the nerves of his men beginning to show a little. "If we come across anything that's too much for us to handle, then we pull out ASAP."

"Fine by me," responded Abraham, M4 aimed down a quiet side street they had just been walking past. A discarded soda can rolled across the tarmac, its rattling note being the only other sound they could hear, save for the whistling of the early morning wind.

"I don't like this," announced Scott as they came up to what used to be an apartment block, but fire had gutted its insides utterly, its windows blackened and scorched, the roof partially collapsed in, smoke still drifting into the sky. The others ignored Scott's worried comment as they approached the gutted front doors, peering inside.

"Nothing left," sighed Abraham with a shake of the head.

"Probably nothing left to save," sighed Winters, shaking his head.

"Come on people, focus," said Elghan loudly, just about loud enough to get their attention, but not loud enough to attract any unwanted attention lurking a couple of blocks away- hopefully. "We can't afford to get distracted by every little thing we"-

His voice trailed off when he saw the overturned baby stroller lying just a few feet away from where they were stood. Its pink and white striped patterns were soiled with dirt and something else that he rather didn't want to think about, one of its wheels missing, the pushing handle bent out of shape, likely from whatever impact knocked it over. The others had seen it too, but none said anything as the Corporal approached the stroller, knowing that he'd recently become the father to twin girls, barely six months ago.

He stooped beside the fallen stroller, his face set and grim, before taking hold of the push bar and slowly lifting the carriage up, exposing the bundle of white cotton sheets and blankets underneath, stained with-

He quickly dropped the stroller and stood bolt upright, his teeth gritted together, trying not to dwell on what could have been laying there amongst the bundle of soft fabric.

"You all right Tom?" asked Winters curiously, noticing the Corporal's ghostly white face.

"Yeah, I'm fine," sighed Elghan, "though I know fine well as soon as I get back to the garrison I'm putting in some personal leave and spending some time with my girls."

"Amen to that," smiled Abraham, the only other father on the small fire team.

Then there was a loud clattering sound from somewhere close by, sounding almost as though a trashcan had been knocked over. Immediately all four soldiers spun around sharply to face the source of the noise, weapons clicking and jostling as they were raised.

"What was that?" hissed Winters.

"Something that could tear our throats out?" suggested Scott with a sardonic tone.

"Shut it," snapped Elghan, before he began to sharply make some hand motions as he ordered his fire team quickly and quietly. The others watched like a hawk, quickly taking in their individual commands.

_Scott, on me. Winter- watch the streets, if you see any enemy contacts, then signal the rest of the team and we pull out. Abraham- watch the windows and the rooftops, just in case._

They all nodded and moved away to take up their positions, while Scott came to Elghan's side- his shotgun would prove useful in case they ran into any danger in those back alleys, with barely any space left to manoeuvre or otherwise. The two of them moved forwards, side by side, weapons raised, eyes scanning for danger. They both entered the alley, and continued on for several feet, passing by several dumpsters, one of them overflowing with stinking, rotted meat, the air above it buzzing with dozens of flies.

"Ugh," sighed Scott.

"Just stay alert," snapped Elghan as they came out into an open courtyard, littered with more dumpsters and a free trash cans- one of which had been knocked over, scattering its contents of rancid meat, cardboard, paper, and other trash around.

"Something came through here, disturbed it," stated Scott as he nudged the can with the barrel of his shotgun, looking to see if there was any kind of reaction from anything hiding inside.

"Obviously," responded Elghan, sarcastically. "Come on, let's do a quick sweep and move on"-

Another loud clatter nearly made them leap out of their skins, before they both spun around, weapons raised, towards a sheltered storage space, likely a public space used by the building's residents. They could hear something over the other background noise- a low whimpering, the odd sob.

"Shhh," whispered a female voice, surprisingly clear and close to them. "It's ok, honey..."

The two soldiers gave one another a quick glance, before Scott simply shrugged, and then stepped forwards slowly and quietly, preparing to throw aside the rusted sheet of corrugated iron that constituted the near wall of the storage space. He grasped the edge of the sheet, and watched Elghan as the Corporal took up his own position, and then mouthed down from three.

_Three...two...one-_

Scott ripped the sheeted iron aside with a loud metallic wrenching noise, before swinging around and shoving his shotgun into the darkness, paired with Elghan's assault rifle.

There was a shriek of horror, and then both soldiers stepped back in shock as they realised they were both pointing at a woman- a still-sane woman, clutching onto a young child in her arms.

"Jesus!" cried Scott, as he reeled backwards in shock at what he had almost done.

"It's ok, it's ok!" urged Elghan hurriedly as he slung his M4 over his back, out of the way and out of direct eye contact. "We're sorry! We're not going to hurt you!"

The woman looked back over her shoulder ever so slowly, tears wetting her eyes. Her face was marked with dirt, her strawberry blonde hair dank and streaked with grease and other substances. The boy she was clutching, meanwhile, was a lot cleaner and less ragged in appearance, his golden hair and innocent eyes barely touched by the madness around them.

"Oh my God!" the woman exhaled suddenly, nearly catching the two soldiers by surprise. "Oh my God, I'm- I'm so sorry!"

"Don't worry about it," said Elghan, hands raised, palms facing forwards. "We didn't mean to give you such a shock"-

"I thought that the city would have been totally abandoned now!" she continued, far too relieved to pick up on the Corporal's apologies. "Are you the only ones or-?"

"The rest of our fire-team's just out in the main street," replied Scott, nodding his head in the direction they had just come from. "Any major deployments into the city are strictly forbidden, but our commanding officer sent us in anyway, to see if we can figure out how all of this started."

"Well, good luck figuring that out," the woman sighed, clearly exhausted. "One minute, it was just another day and then the next..." she trailed off there, and the soldiers made sure not to push her any further. She'd clearly been through a lot that any normal person shouldn't have been subjected to. "Why? Why us? Why is this happening to the city?"

"I wish I could give you an answer, ma'am," sighed Elghan, shaking his head, before he noticed that the young boy was looking at him in the way that only a child could- a child who had never seen a fully-tooled up soldier from the U.S Military before. His eyes were full of awe and wonder like he were some kind of comic book superhero.

"Hey there, little man," he smiled, stooping down slightly so they were almost at the same level. "You being a good man for your mom?"

"Uh-huh," the boy nodded, managing a little smile that caused his mother to smile as well, some semblance of happiness amongst all this madness. "I'm being very brave until my daddy gets back. He always finds us again."

"Yes he does," the woman whispered, tears forming once again in her eyes.

"He'll come back and protect us from the very bad men and women," the child continued, "the ones hurting everyone."

"Oh yeah, those people," said Scott flatly, looking the other way. His usual lack of tact shone through clearly in his words and manner.

"Yes," the boy continued innocently. "People like that," he then said, pointing over Elghan's shoulder.

The Corporal whirled around as fast as humanly possible, only to see what the boy was referring to. Standing in the shadowy doorway that he hadn't even noticed until now was yet another one of those 'very bad men'. It was painfully thin and bony, its ribs clearly visible underneath its pale skin, almost ready to burst through the surface. Its long black hair obscured most of its face, but Elghan could still see the blood-smeared mouth filled with broken, yellowed teeth.

And then there was a thundering discharge as Scott fired his shotgun over Elghan's shoulder, right beside his ear. The man's head exploded like a gore-filled balloon, and his dead weight was thrown backwards into the darkness, the woman screaming in terror.

"Shit!" cursed Elghan as he nursed his ear. "What the hell?"

"Saved your skin, didn't it?" retorted Scott. "Besides, I think that's the last thing you should be worrying about right now."

As if to punctuate his point, a chorus of empty groans began to filter back towards them. Elghan's head whipped all around, and he could see them all now- stepping out of open doorways, out of shadowed alcoves, emerging from out of stinking trash bags and other rubbish, and some even dragging themselves out of shattered windows.

"Mommy?" the boy asked.

"Damn," cursed Elghan. "Come on, we're leaving. Right now."

"No complaints from me," grunted Scott as he turned about, S.P.A.S 12 propped tightly against his shoulder. Elghan turned back towards the woman and her child.

"You need to come with us now," he said firmly, "so we can get you out of here, keep you both safe. Stay where I can see you, no matter what happens, understood?" The woman just nodded slowly in confirmation. "And one more thing"-

He reached into one of the pockets on his tactical vest and retrieved a set of padded headphones that he normally used when he was listening to his music while not on frontline duties. He placed them carefully over the boy's ears, before he spoke up again.

"Whatever happens, you keep these on, ok? Me and my friends are going to be making a lot of noise very soon and we don't want you to lose your hearing, right?"

"Lewis," the boy said suddenly.

"What?"

"That's my name, Lewis," the boy continued. "If we're going to be friends, you should know my name, right?"

"Of course," Elghan smiled. "I'm Tom."

"And I'm Langdon," said Scott irritated, "but right now, shouldn't we get the hell out of here?" he then added, indicating towards the nearest crazed citizens, barely 15 yards away from them.

"Come on," said Elghan as he pulled the headphones over Lewis' ears, "let's get away from the very bad people, shall we?"

"Thank you so much," whispered Lewis' mother.

"You can thank me later," responded Elghan as he stood up and retrieved his M4, racking the bolt back to load the chamber. "Right now, there's a lot of work to be done."

Then he raised the rifle and fired, the rifle's cutting bark tearing through the courtyard, the heads of at least two figures bursting like rotten watermelons. Then Scott fired, his shotgun's deep roar forming a marked contrast to the Corporal's assault rifle. A frail female body went flying back, almost ripped clean in two. He pumped a fresh shell into the chamber and fired again, bursting apart another skull.

"They're all around us!" cried Elghan, as he turned and fired, cutting down a couple more figures that had been approaching from behind where he had been conversing with Lewis and his mother. There seemed to be twice as many of those freaks then there had been moments ago. He reached up for his ear piece.

"Abraham? Winters? We're on our way back to you both right now. We found two civilian survivors and we're pulling out, now!"

"Roger that Tom," called back Winters' voice, over the bark of Abraham's own M4 firing. "Looks like we stirred up the hornet's nest here- there's got to be a few hundred of those bastards here at least!"

"Shit!" cursed Scott loudly, as he knocked an elderly lady back with a solid smack from the stock of his shotgun. The blow cracked open her skull, leaving blood and liquefied brain matter to gush out when she hit the tarmac.

"Pull back, pull back!" yelled Elghan as the two soldiers began to move back along the alleyway they had arrived by, making sure to keep the mother and child between them, using their bodies as shields. The Corporal fired off a few more shots, putting down a few more bodies, many of them minus large portions of their skulls.

They emerged out onto the street to find Abraham and Winters standing with their backs to them, firing frantically into the massive crowd of seething figures that were approaching from up the main avenue into the city, spilling out of open doorways, alleyways, and into view from behind buildings. Elghan couldn't help but look over the countless faces before them, and notice the little details.

There were all age ranges in the crowd, all types of build and race too- he even saw the odd child amongst the swaying ranks of adults, featuring the exact same white eyes and blank faces. It was horrific, how an entire city could be taken to such insane and dangerous behaviour. It was exactly as Davies and some of the others had reckoned- there was an illness in Raccoon City, and it was the worst thing imaginable.

Abraham shot the head off of a middle-aged man wearing just a pair of distressed jeans and a white vest, before turning to face Elghan and Scott. "Jesus, what took you so long?" he demanded, before turning and blasting the face off of a teenage boy wearing a punk rock t-shirt.

"Long story," replied Elghan, noticing the terrified look on the face of Lewis' mother, "let's just focus on getting out of here first, shall we?"

"Agreed," said Winters bluntly, before he fired into the crowd. A couple of figures fell, quickly trampled by the others.

The four soldiers began to pull back out of Raccoon City, the mother and child with them, followed by the rotted shells of the city's former citizens.

**A/N: And so another chapter is concluded. I apologise again for the long wait between chapters, but there's been a lot going on again, and I'm having trouble trying to get the inspiration to continue this story as well. Which is a shame as I'd hate to leave this story just hanging when it was only two-thirds done.**

**Speaking of which, there are probably only a few more chapters left for this story, as we revisit some faces we haven't heard from in a while, and expand a little more on the tales of others.**

**In other news, I have been playing quite a few new games on my weekends and days off from work. First among them is Warhammer 40,000: Space Marine, a pretty solid action title all around, with the emphasis purely on getting stuck into the thick of combat and slaughtering dozens of orks. Then after that was Resistance 3, the third instalment in the PS3-exclusive series that started as one of the games on the console's launch line-up, and this is another pretty decent first-person shooter, with a good story and satisfying weapons. And the online multiplayer is pretty fun too. **

**Though the most recent game I got, just a couple days ago, is Dark Souls, follow-up to the PS3-exclusive Demon's Souls that came out back in 2009, and for anyone who's played that game, they might know what to expect in Dark Souls. It's an incredibly satisfying game, but also highly difficult- expect to put a lot of time and effort into it to get your full enjoyment out of it. **

**Anyways, I've blabbed on long enough. R & R as always, people. **


	14. Exit Strategy

Chapter 14: Exit Strategy

**September 28****th**** 0712 hours**

Zac Briars, his chest feeling as though it were stuck in a vice, peered his head around the corner of the building he was standing beside. He could see the zombies out in the street- at least four or five- crouched over a dead body, tearing into the exposed flesh on the arms, face and torso, spraying blood onto themselves and across the tarmac. One of them ripped away half of an arm (hand included), and leaned back fully, tearing away a long strip of muscle and sinew, chewing contently.

Zac almost threw up and leaned back into shelter. He'd heard the frantic screams for help a few minutes ago, but by the time he had made it down here it was far too late, whoever it had been now just another morsel for the hordes wandering the streets. Speaking of which, several more zombies, perhaps sensing the commotion, were beginning to make their way along the alleyway, eager to join in the feast- though Zac doubted there was much left after the mess the initial group had made of the body.

He looked backwards instead, towards the clock tower of St Michael's, still looming tall over everything else in the vicinity. It still looked as though it would provide a safe haven, but there was no chance of him ever going back there again.

They had felt safer when that cop had turned up out of the night- Dean, his name was- someone with guns, someone who had some semblance of authority to be making difficult decisions, to take charge when necessary. And then those other two men had appeared- mercenaries with Umbrella, as ridiculous as that sounded. But they were both well-armed, and seemed better informed on what had happened in the city. The dark-haired one, Adams, seemed decent enough, but the other one...

Campbell, his name was. And his attitude was plain aggressive and confrontational, insisting that they all make a break to escape rather than hiding and waiting for the cavalry to roll through town. So desperate was he to leave, in fact, he had no compunctions over sacrificing the others to make sure he got out safely. And he had proved it when he had thrown Sam to the zombies invading the clock tower grounds.

He could still perfectly recall the look of utter horror on Sam's face as the multiple hands grabbed onto him, the teeth tearing into his soft flesh, and could recall the similar look on Angela's face as her partner was killed there on the spot. Joe had been the next to go, trying to overpower the treacherous bastard, only to become zombie food himself. And Zac's own attempt at intervening had resulted in a broken nose. He sighed and rubbed it thoughtfully. The pain had long since faded away after Hopkins had reset it for him, but it was still a little sore and swollen. Angela had joked afterwards that he resembled a clown with a big red nose.

But the deaths hadn't been a laughing matter. Sam and Joe were both dead, as was Campbell, though nobody cried over his loss. And as for Dean- no-one knew for sure. The last that Hopkins had seen was that the R.P.D cop had been fleeing out through the main courtyard gates, out onto the open street, away from the zombies still swarming into the clock tower grounds. He had tried to defend them all from Campbell's insanity, even though it would cost him being separated from the main group. But considering what he had survived through so far, Zac was confident he would make it out in one piece.

With Dean gone and the tower's main hall compromised, the others had retreated into the tiny back storeroom, desperate to try and put as much distance between themselves and the zombies as possible. With the heavy spare bell for the tower blocking the back door, they thought it another safe sanctuary from the dead outside. But it was not to be.

It had been barely half an hour ago that the dead finally gained access, smashing through the door that lead into the main tower itself, pouring in through the narrow bottleneck of the doorway, that hideous stench following after them. Angela and Roger had been killed in moments, leaving only himself, Paula, and Hopkins to try and flee from the advancing monsters. The last thing that he could remember as he fled through the back door was the sight of Hopkins, clutching Paula to his body protectively, as the zombies swarmed in around them.

_Fled. _After everything, he had ran and left them to die. He was nothing but a coward, plain and simple.

He lowered his head and sighed, feeling the tears beginning to prick his eyes. What good was he to anyone? He'd been running ever since this entire mess had begun, and how many had died since then? The officers of the R.P.D, his friends on campus, and more besides- they all died while he lived on, purely because he had ran like a coward.

But what else could he do? He was a lone university student with little to depend upon other than the handgun he had found on the dead body inside the clock tower- the same one he had had barely used since finding it- and how long would that last against the hundreds of zombies roaming the streets?

All he could do was to keep moving, try and find some manner of safety (if such a thing existed in the city now), or perhaps even something that could let him contact the outside world. He knew that the hospital wasn't far from St Michael's, so that seemed the logical place to start- though he dreaded to imagine the state of things at the hospital now.

With another heavy sigh, he pushed away from the wall and began to make his way in the opposite direction of the zombie feeding frenzy. He could still hear the smacking of lips and the tearing of flesh, indicating that they weren't quite finished yet. As ever, the constant empty moans trickled after him.

The road on which Raccoon General was located happened to encircle Raccoon City Park, and Zac could see the tops of green trees and hedges, peering over the top of the fence bars, and he could hear the faint trickle of running water as well. The pools and self-contained canals that made up the main entrance into the park were much talked about in the city's travel and tourism brochures, but Zac doubted there was anything that could be considered beautiful left in this city now, overrun with the undead and more besides.

Every now and then a lingering vision of those huge spiders from the clock tower, or the grotesque bug monster that had chased him, shrieking, through that back alley, crept into the back of his mind. Those damned freaks were bad enough, but what else lay just out of sight, waiting to pounce and tear his head off?

He shuddered inwardly, making sure that his pistol was close at hand.

The moaning intensified as he drew closer to the hospital, the huge red cross above its front doors shining like a lighthouse beacon in the mist-shrouded seas. He soon saw the zombies arrayed outside though- a couple hundred at least, clamouring around the shut front doors, beating at the bulletproof glass pathetically in an attempt to get inside. Their hands left bloody smears from where they groped and pawed weakly, many of them looking with necks craned upwards, towards the few windows on one of the upper floors that, incredibly, were showing bright light.

_Is someone still in there?_

The most direct way to find out would be to go inside himself and look around- though not through the front door, obviously.

He moved away from the main road, through another of the narrow back alleyways. Considering how tightly packed the city was structured in general, it shouldn't have been too hard to find a way around the back of the hospital, to the ambulance bay. There had to be an entrance back there, the way that they would bring in accident victims, and hopefully it would be a lot clearer than the front entrance.

It took a little work on his part- he had to take a back alleyway route once again, and then he had to spend a few more minutes finding a place where he could easily scale the rear fence that surrounded the ambulance bay. He used a teetering stack of wooden crates to boost himself over the fence, as a few stray zombies continued to shuffle forwards ever closer. Thankfully, there were nowhere near enough to constitute any kind of concern, and once he was within the fence he was safe.

The ambulance bay was largely deserted, just as he had expected, the patients likely evacuated out of the city before things got too bad. A couple of ambulances had been left behind though, one of them with its rear doors left wide open and a gurney half-hanging out of the back- unoccupied thankfully. Though what he could see where the row upon row of dead bodies that had been left outside, sprawled across the tarmac, their body bags half opened so that their heads and upper bodies were left exposed. Most of the bodies had their heads smashed into mush like ripe melons, others showing a lone gunshot wound to the forehead. It hadn't taken the hospital staff long to work out that the dead were coming back to life, at the very least.

Zac shivered a little as he looked out across the bodies, and then he found the composure to continue forwards, towards the wide open rear doors. He had little intention of remaining out in the cold for much longer, to the point that it overrode the implications of what could be lurking inside, out of sight.

He cleared the steps in a couple of seconds, and stepped forwards into the relative darkness of the hospital.

* * *

"These are probably the best potato chips I've ever had," said Amy with glee as she stuffed her face with the cheese and onion flavoured corn snacks.

"Well that's good to hear," smiled Lenny from where he was sat opposite, opening his own packet, "it means that it was worthwhile for us to go and get them."

"Hey, it was worthwhile either way," added Steven, as he was finishing off replacing the dressing on Ryan's head wound, carefully wrapping fresh gauze around the student's head. "For him, mainly."

"I know," nodded Amy as she finished off her current mouthful of snacks. "Thank you. Both of you." That second statement was mainly directed towards Lenny, who was sat several feet away from them, facing towards the store's front door, his pistol clutched tightly in his hand. A half-empty bottle of water sat on the counter beside him, as did an unopened bag of chips.

"It's allright," the police officer replied, "it was the least we could do for the poor bastard. Nothing more indignant than dying of a head wound after surviving this long in a city full of zombies..." His voice trailed off quietly when he realised that probably wasn't the best thing to be saying in front of Amy to begin with. "I'm sorry," he then added quickly.

"Don't worry about it," the red head responded, as she looked back over to where Steven was finishing off on applying Ryan's new dressing. "And thank you too, Steven."

"Hey, I had to make up somehow for my comment earlier," the Englishman responded with a wry smile. Amy became quiet at his reference to their past altercation, when she had nearly bitten his head off for his comment that Umbrella couldn't have possibly caused this disaster.

"Listen," she said as she got up and came to stand beside him, "I'm sorry about...what I said earlier on."

"Ah, don't worry about it," Steven said as he finished his work and stood back up. "There. He should be fine now."

"Is there any improvement?" asked Amy curiously, putting a hand tenderly on Ryan's cheek. He moaned very quietly and shifted a little.

"Well," began Steven as he sat himself down against the wall and slid down into a seated position, "as I told you before, I'm not a doctor, per se- but I've done my best. He's got a stable pulse, and his wound hasn't been infected or anything similar, so his chances are good. But I can't tell if he fractured his skull badly or if there's any internal bleeding..."

He trailed off as the grim implications became all too clear to the others. Amy didn't show any visible reaction though, her hand still held to Ryan's cheek.

"He did it to protect me," she whispered, hoarsely. "Ever since we escaped from campus- he went out of his way to protect us all, to lead us away from danger. Ryan was never the type to stand up and take direct charge- he always stood back, let everyone else mingle and do all the heavy lifting. But when this all happened, he just took charge on the spot, tried to lead us all out. And now look at where it got us."

"Hey, don't talk that way," responded Steven in a gentle manner.

"If he hadn't have lead us into that kennel"-

"Hey, you can't change what happened in the past," continued Steven, as he fixed the young girl with his dark eyes. "I can only guess at what's going through your head right now, but dwelling on the ones who have gone won't help you much. You can't let yourself lose your focus on surviving."

Steven half-expected the girl to offer some kind of rebuttal, but instead she only sighed deeply and gave a half-smile. "Thank you," was all she said, and then she moved around to sit down beside the middle-aged man. There was another bout of silence, save for the sounds of mastication as Kelly and Lenny enjoyed their own snacks.

"You know," said Steven suddenly, getting Amy's attention, "about what I said earlier...about Umbrella?"

"Yeah?"

"I've worked for Umbrella for 15 years now. I'd just been cut free from my last job at a major bank, after I'd spent so many years studying finance. I felt as though there was no chance I'd get another job, and that each day I was just aimlessly wandering through life. And then I attended that Umbrella recruitment drive by chance, and within two weeks I was taken on as a Finance Manager in London."

"Really?" asked Amy curiously.

"Yes," nodded Steven, no trace of mirth. "Looking back, it was probably the defining moment in my life so far. I was set for life- a good pension, decent salary, plenty of benefits- and perhaps the most important of all, within my first year there I met Margaret Henderson at a conference up in Manchester- six months later we were married."

"I see what you mean by defining moment," smiled Amy, before noticing how the Englishman was rubbing his wedding band thoughtfully. It didn't last though, as he then reached into one of the pockets in his jacket and retrieving a bras pocket watch. With a quiet click, it popped open, and Amy leaned over to see the picture inside- a woman with two teenage girls.

"Your family?" she asked, and he nodded slowly in confirmation. "Your daughters are beautiful," she then added.

Steven chuckled quietly to himself before he spoke again. "Well they take after their mother in that respect."

"Well I think they have your eyes," added Amy.

"That's very kind of you," chuckled Steven again, "but really, like I said, they take more after their mother. She was probably the most beautiful woman I'd ever met in my life- she had potential suitors trailing around the block, and yet she chose me. It couldn't have been my looks, or my money..."

Amy found herself grinning, in spite of everything that surrounded them- the death and destruction outside on the city streets, the undead that wandered to and fro to seek out the living, and the comatose body of her friend who lay scant feet away from them- despite everything, she felt then and there that things would turn out allright.

"But seriously," said Steven suddenly, moving on rather suddenly from their rather light-hearted conversation. His brow was furrowed now, as he recalled something else of importance, "working with Umbrella, looking back- I realise I should have known something was amiss."

"What do you mean?" asked the redhead.

"When I started with them, the first thing they had me do was to sign a confidentiality statement that was six sides long," explained Steven. "I mean, there was a real zero-tolerance take on what information we spoke of outside the office, even the most mundane things. First three months I was there, I worked with a man called Nathan Willis- stand-up guy, smart- but he never could shut up."

"I see," said Amy.

"Anyway, there was one time we were went out for a load of drinks to celebrate our promotions, and he had a few drinks in him, and he would not shut up about this new the higher-ups had asked him to head-up: something about funding a new facility up in the Scottish moors- why anyone would want to build a place all the way up there was beyond me at the time..."

"I'll say," interrupted Amy, but quieted down to let him continue.

"He was going on and on about how Umbrella had directed nearly 3 million pounds into that venture, all through offshore accounts, in order to get it off the ground," continued Steven, "and we all assumed that he was just talking rubbish, being off his face..." He paused for a while to clear his throat, and continued.

"But then he didn't come in the next day, and we assumed that he was still ill from that night, but when he didn't come back the next few days and he didn't answer his phone, some of us got seriously worried," he continued. "And then two weeks later his replacement came in, started as though nothing had ever happened- and management made it pretty clear they didn't want us talking about Nathan Willis again."

"Wow," said Amy in genuine surprise.

"But there was another man, William, who was good friends with Nathan, got himself all twisted up in knots over the whole thing," Steven continued. "Wouldn't shut up about it, even after he was warned about it twice. The third time he was called into the manager's office, and then he walked out minus his job, just like that."

"And they did this often?" asked Amy.

"Well, from what I heard, yes," responded Steven, glancing over towards Ryan's still form for a few moments. "In most Umbrella workplaces the turnover was ridiculous. The only reason I lasted for 15 years was because I realised that minding my own business and keeping my mouth shut was the best strategy. You know what they say about curiosity, right?"

"It murders cats?"

Both of them jumped at the suddenness of Lenny's comment, abruptly sliding into the conversation from nowhere at all. The cop was still perched on the front counter, but he had turned around now to listen in, his tired eyes showing his lack of sleep.

"Sorry," he said with a slight smile, "didn't mean to make you jump. But what you just said- that sounds awfully similar to something I saw last year."

"Oh?" asked Steven curiously.

"I was on patrol on the edge of the city when I pulled this guy over for having a busted tail light," Lenny explained. "He was wearing this real expensive suit, gold watch, all the trimmings- turned out he was an executive with Umbrella. But we were more interested on why he was so insistent on getting away- and that he had a gun and a briefcase with a hundred thousand dollars in it."

"Wow," said Amy in shock.

"Yep," nodded Lenny, "and when we put him in another patrol car to take him back to the precinct, he was begging us to let him go, that 'they' were after him and that he wouldn't last the night. We all assumed he was just talking BS, but that car never made it back to the station- we found it left in some alleyway in downtown Raccoon. Both of the officers and that guy we pulled over were dead- killed execution style."

"Jesus Christ," whispered Steven, before quickly adding, "pardon my French."

"Witnesses stated they saw a pair of men dressed all in black fleeing the scene, but we never found them," continued Lenny, "and the case was never closed either. When we looked into it, it turned out this poor guy had just walked out of his job that day, got given his notice for some reason we never found out about."

"Maybe he saw or heard something he shouldn't have?" suggested Amy.

"So it's all just a big conspiracy theory?" added Steven. "Even so, if Umbrella had something to do with what's happening in this town, why? Why would they do something which destroys their base of operations in North America?"

"Who knows?" replied Lenny, "but we can't worry about that. We need to worry about ourselves right now."

"Well we need an exit strategy then," suggested Steven. "How long do you think it'll be before the cavalry rolls into town? Fact is, we could be stuck here for a lot longer than we think."

"We have these," said Lenny, producing the distress flares that Ryan had taken from the body of the Umbrella mercenary who had tried to kill him and Amy hours beforehand. "If a helicopter passes overhead, we just set these off and throw them into the street. Going by air would probably be the best way for them to search the city anyway."

"Well we only have one shot at that if they do come by air," reasoned Steven. "And we have to worry about carrying him out as well," he then added, indicating towards Ryan.

"Yeah," said Lenny, almost distractedly.

"We got plenty more of those old sheets lying around," butted in Amy, "and maybe we can break down some chairs and use the wood to tie together a frame for a makeshift stretcher. It'll be easier than carrying him by hand, at the very least."

"Okay then," replied Lenny, "we should get started then, just in case." He stood up, letting Steven and Amy go their own separate ways to seek out what they needed to put together Ryan's home-made stretcher.

_At least we can still keep our hopes up somewhat, _the R.P.D officer thought to himself, thinking briefly of his missing family. He sighed and glanced up at Kelly, who was currently mopping Ryan's brow with a damp cloth, trying to keep his fever down. She looked up at him and gave a hopeful smile that he returned after a few seconds.

_I hope we can stretch it out for a bit longer._

* * *

Zac was beginning to think that coming into the hospital had been a _really _bad idea.

The place was a mess, either from the sudden evacuation of the patients stuck in the building, or from the zombies that had likely swept through the building like a tornado. Most of the ceiling lights had been shorted out, the few remaining ones flickering on and off in sequence. A wheelchair and a gurney had been knocked onto their sides, while others had been left where they had been abandoned, the sheets stained with dried blood. Speaking of which, the red fluid was sprayed across the walls and the ceiling- even onto the furniture and the vending machines.

There were no bodies though. The stench of blood was overpowering from the moment he had entered the corridor, and yet there wasn't a single body in sight. So either they had all been moved already...

_Or they got up themselves._

He shook that morbid thought away, making sure that the Glock was close to hand. He approached the door which featured a sign reading 'Pharmacy', where the patients would receive their prescriptions. His hand closed around the brass knob, and he held it for a few seconds, before he pushed the door open gently and peeked inside. The pharmacy was relatively untouched, although he still saw the body of another fallen citizen of Raccoon City, laying face-down on the tiled floor. He quietly left the way he had entered, closing the door shut as he went, in case the corpse decided to follow after its brief visitor.

The other door within the waiting area lead him into the lower stairwell, where an angry red emergency light flared on and off, no longer able to be shut off manually. This time Zac did see a body- one of the doctor's, judging by the white coat- but it was a body so badly chewed up that it resembled nothing more than a pathetic pile of bones, shredded clothing, and desiccated flesh. Zac turned away from it, shivering, and peered up the stairs trying to discern anything, but it was too dark to see anything. Perhaps it would be best if he found a flashlight or something similar before he went any further upstairs.

The next door he tried opened into the hospital's main lobby, perhaps the only room he had seen so far which was still in one piece, save for the odd streak of blood across the tiled floor, and the potted plants which had been knocked onto their sides. The front doors were locked tight, and on the opposite side he could see the dozens of zombified citizens that had gathered, pressing up against the reinforced glass in a futile attempt to get in. Their wandering hands left bloody smears and handprints on the glass, their yawning jaws opening and closing in a creepy unison.

Despite their stupidity, he wondered if they had some kind of inherent hive mind, which compelled them to band together, to follow one another to nearby sources of food. It was something that slipped into the back of his mind from time to time, distracting him from the important task of surviving. Constantly he had to push it back down, smother it to stop himself getting dangerously distracted. Just as he did here, pushing the thought away as he entered the wooden door marked 'Staff Only', beside the reception window.

The room inside was clearly an admin office, the large oak desk in the centre of the room piled high will all sorts of paperwork and other office stationary. A number of cabinets in the corners were also ram-packed with files and other items, along with an old typewriter and a grey storage chest in the corner to his left, beside the door into the staff room, if the notice on it was anything to go by. A quick search of the office, and the many drawers, soon turned up a standard-issue flashlight, if those things came in a standard issue. He clicked it on and its beam was bright as it could be, and he tapped it against his open palm a few times to make sure that the beam didn't flicker out.

"This'll do," he whispered to himself, walking back out of the office. As he did, he failed to hear the faint, wet, slurping sounds emanating from the ventilation duct in the corner.

He made his way back to the stairwell as quickly as he dared, not wanting to stop for any reason lest something ambush him from an unseen corner. Once there, he clicked the flashlight on and shone the beam up the stairs. When the light only illuminated the blank wall, he began to ascend them slowly, one at a time. His footfalls made depressingly loud sounds as he ascended, making him cringe.

The landing for the 2nd floor was thankfully free of any threats or obstructions, and he carefully tried the door that lead into the actual floor itself. It was unlocked, and he edged it open to peer inside. The passage beyond was almost completely in darkness, his torch beam illuminating the barest traces of the wall closest to him, as well as another couple of abandoned gurneys. He also briefly lit up the back of a figure in patient's scrubs, standing with head bowed. He quickly shut the door as quietly as he dared to.

_Not that way, _he thought to himself. At the least, he now knew that there were zombies still inside the hospital.

He tried the third floor instead, but the door only opened a few inches, blocked by something on the other side, something that had been shoved up against it as an impromptu barricade. The lights in the corridor beyond were mostly intact though, so hopefully he wouldn't have to stumble around in the dark for much longer. He shoved again, and this time there was a groaning of steel as the object- a patient's bed which had been upturned and dragged into the hall- was pushed out of the way enough for him to force his way in.

The third floor corridor was a lot cleaner and tidier than the rest of the hospital had been, although there was the odd splash of blood and disorganisation from where wounded bodies had been hurried through here en masse. The lights were also largely intact, save for the odd blinking bulb. Zac let out a soft sigh of relief.

He decided to search the floor room-by-room, starting with the short corridor he found to his right, with only a single door that he came across. It was unlocked, and he peered inside to see it was a ward, the far wall lined with four beds, their drapes pulled back, the beds themselves mercifully empty of any bodies, alive or otherwise.

On one of the tables, someone had left a written note behind. There was no clue as to who had left it exactly, and a quick read over it painted it as a pretence to something nasty in the near future.

_It's been several hours since the bulk of the patients and staff were evacuated by the army troops who broke into Raccoon City from the West. They couldn't spare any men to leave behind though, so it falls to myself and a few others in the unenviable task of helping any people still left in the city. A ridiculous premise, judging by the countless 'zombies' that now roam the streets. _

_Doctor Marston and Henning went out onto the streets a few hours ago to find a pharmacy to load up on supplies, and to look for any other survivors. We haven't seen or heard from them since- no doubt they've been added to the already immense death toll. Now it's down to just myself, and perhaps two of the nurses. But I haven't seen them for a while now, and the second floor has been overrun with zombies. And it's not just them. _

_There's something else in the hospital. I caught a glimpse of it earlier on- it was of a human shape, but it was no zombie. No matter where I run to, it finds me, as though it can smell me. It has problems with doors, but it uses the ventilation system to get about through the entire building. At this rate, I don't have long left to live. When I started my career as a doctor, I never in my life would have thought I would witness something like this. It is as though a biblical plague has been unleashed upon Raccoon City, and we are all powerless to resist._

_Even now I can-_

The message ended there abruptly, as though the author had been interrupted suddenly. The part about there being something else inside the Hospital made him a little on edge, to say the least.

_-it uses the ventilation system to get about- _

His eyes arched upwards towards the ceiling, where he could see the cold grey steel of the ventilation duct that emanated from one corner of the ceiling, and trailed across the entire ceiling length into the opposite corner. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and he slowly put the paper down, wanting to get a move on as soon as possible-

There was an almighty crash as the ventilation cover fell from its place with a loud clatter, and something horrific slithered out of the darkness.

* * *

Brad Vickers stood with his back to the wall, his harsh gasps for air making him sound on the verge of hyperventilating. The Samurai Edge was clutched tightly in his hand, gnawing him to the bone. Before everything had gone to hell in Raccoon City, he had never fired it before throughout his career in the S.T.A.R.S- and now it had got in plenty of use.

He had been the only one from the surviving S.T.A.R.S who hadn't experienced the horrors in the forest and the mansion first hand, but he had seen enough of that towering, albino brute that had been blown into pieces with the rocket launcher dropped for Chris and the others, as well as the dogs in the woods, to have an idea of what they had all gone through.

All gone through because of him. If he hadn't have lifted off then and there, as the rotted dogs slammed against the reinforced glass of the chopper's cockpit, leaving bloody smears across the glass. Brad had stayed in the chopper while the others headed out on foot to search the woods- hearing Joseph's screams over the radio was bad enough, but seeing those Dobermen, their heads with the flesh peeling away, took the proverbial biscuit, and in his blind fear, he had lifted off, despite the fact the rest of Alpha Team were still in the woods.

Sure, he had come back for them at the very end, after spending hours circling the forest, looking for some sign of their life- but he always knew that it wasn't enough. They had all been understandably grateful to begin with, but Chris had never forgiven Brad for his initial abandonment. He recalled how he always glared at Brad from the opposite end of the room, as though he wanted to murder him. Brad didn't blame him, frankly. He'd be pissed off if someone had left him to fend for himself in the midst of a dangerous situation.

And then when they had all gathered to discuss their next move following their suspension, he had once again ran out on them. He reasoned that he wanted nothing more to do with the entire thing- with his law enforcement career effectively over; he wanted to head back home and try to start afresh. Jill and Rebecca had been fairly understanding over his choice, Chris and Barry had silently glared right at him.

_I ran away on that night, and I ran away afterwards as well._

He screwed his eyes shut, the guilt seeping back into his mind. It had tormented him for weeks afterwards, and he had finally take the decision to head back into town to try and help them when everything had gone to hell, and he found himself in the middle of a real-life horror movie. Although the 'zombies' were terrifying to behold and almost countless in number, he had quickly got over his fear (mostly) when he realised they could easily be killed with a single gunshot or a good blow to the head.

The other monster though, was something else entirely. Nearly twice his size and built from sheer muscle, he had managed to evade it twice over the course of the last several hours, slowing it down in the tight network of alleyways and apartment blocks that formed most of Raccoon City's downtown region. He had no choice but to run as shooting it was practically useless- it hadn't even flinched from the bullet impacts. And the fact that it had been carrying a rocket launcher and could punch through solid brick walls further proved its sheer power.

He knew that it was after him. It wasn't a coincidence that it kept finding him- it was stalking him and the other S.T.A.R.S members specifically, if its guttural roars were anything to go by.

Though he hadn't had much luck in finding any of his colleagues so far. He had been through both Chris's apartment and the Burton household, and both of them were completely empty, as though they had moved out recently. If they had done, Brad didn't blame them thankfully. He'd been trying to get to the block where Jill's apartment was located, but the car wrecks blocked off most of the main streets, forcing him to circle instead, looking for another way through. All the while that damned creature was after him.

He peered around the corner of the wall he was pressed against. The wide alleyway he had come down was occupied by a few loitering zombies, but that was about it- no lumbering behemoths in black charging after him like a maddened rhino. He sighed in blessed relief, and ducked behind the corner again, looking in front of him this time. A set of stone stairs trailed back and forth down into one of the courtyards behind a set of apartment complexes built from red brick. Several garages for cars and storage sheds stood in two roughly parallel lines, and more zombies wandered to and fro. Thankfully, they were spread out enough for him to make a mad dash through them if it came to that.

Then he heard a low, rumbling growl from behind him, and his heart stopped.

_No-_

He quickly turned around and stared back down the alley he had just come down. The zombies were still there, but now they had turned back away from Brad, at something which had caught their attention. Brad could see the outline of something barrelling down the alley at high speed, dressed all in black.

_Oh fuck no-_

It slammed into the first two zombies with the force of a runaway freight train, tossing their limb, broken bodies into the air like rag dolls, leaving them in its wake. A third zombie- a tall man wearing a grey fleece jacket- lunged at the massive figure, but a huge fist closed around its throat, lifted it into the air, and then smashed it against the wall with enough force to reduce its skull and upper torso to bloody jam.

_No no no, why me?_

At that moment, its pallid head whipped towards Brad, single white eye glowing in the limited light.

"S.T.A.R.S..."

"Oh fuck me!" cried Brad, turning and fleeing down the stairs as fast as he dared.

"S.T.A.!" the monster roared, its voice threatening to bring the buildings down around it. It tossed the limb body aside, and then plunged into a sprint after its intended target.

Brad cleared the stairs in the space of five seconds, vaulting over the red-painted safety bar which had been installed on the step's side wall when he got to the bottom. He then began to sprint forwards, into the open, towards the nearest apartment block. He hoped that he could lose the monster the same way he had done the last two times, and put as much distance between it and himself-

Those thoughts were savagely interrupted as a massive black shape slammed down onto the concrete a few feet behind him, sending out a shockwave that threw him off his feet and at least ten feet forwards, where he landed harshly enough to knock the air from his lungs and leave him rolling along several feet. Thankfully he kept a tight grip on his pistol.

He gasped for breath and glanced up to see the monstrous stalker crouched on the ground, a crater some ten feet wide surrounding where it had landed, the concrete having shattered and buckled almost as though a miniature earthquake had ripped through the area. It issued a low, throbbing growl, and then stood up straight, rearing up to its full height. Brad looked into its single white eye and the demented grin of slab-like teeth which took up the lower half of its head, and he swore very loudly indeed.

"S.T.A.R.S," the monster growled once more, taking slow, plodding steps towards him. Even those 'little' steps covered at least five feet, its massive boots shaking the ground. Brad scrambled back desperately, aiming his pistol with one hand.

"Get away!" he cried frantically, firing a few shots into its misshapen head. There was the clear splash of blood from each hit, but the brute didn't even flinch from the impacts, the ripped flesh stitching itself back together as if by magic. It raised its right arm, and there was a sickening rip of flesh as a purple tendril, writhing like a live snake, tore itself free from inside the monster's arm. It coiled around its thick wrist, preparing to strike.

"Oh damn it!" cried Brad, waiting for the end to come-

There was a brief whistle, and then suddenly a small explosion spread across the giant's shoulders. It let out a pained roar and rocked forwards, the purple tendril retracting back into the monster's flesh with a slick slurping sound. The monster then turned and growled, glaring back the way they had both come from. Standing atop the stone stairs was the soldier- Leland- that Brad had encountered not too long ago, smoke issuing from the M203 launcher attached underneath the barrel of his M4A1.

"Pick on someone your own size!" he called out. The towering monster roared in fury and surged forwards, temporarily distracted from its current mission.

The soldier fired another grenade round, but this time to miss as the creature effortlessly dodged to the side, the round exploding and leaving a blackened halo on the concrete instead. It hurled itself into the air, sailing towards the soldier with one massive fist clenched to smash him into a bloody pulp. Though he was long on the move, and the death blow missed by a country mile, the fist smashing a crater into the stone instead. As the soldier ran, he fired behind him, the 5.56 rounds tearing through the giant's black coat and into its flesh, splashing more blood.

Brad hauled himself up, realising this was his chance to make a run for it while the beast was distracted from him for the time being. He turned towards the nearest apartment back door, and slowed to a halt when he saw a figure standing in the doorway, glaring at him with lifeless eyes. Then it took a step forwards, and Brad promptly raised his Beretta and put a bullet through its right eye. It hit the doorstep hard, splattering blood across the concrete.

The soldier reached the bottom of the stairs and vaulted over the barrier, much as Brad had done not too long ago. He turned swiftly and poured more gunfire into the monster's broad chest, eliciting a few grunts of pain- or anger, it was hard to tell- before sprinting at him, swinging its massive fists wildly. He dropped and rolled, narrowly avoiding a huge fist as it tore the safety railing off and sent stone chips flying like confetti. Coming up on one knee, he unloaded the rest of the magazine into the monster's face and shoulders, forcing it backwards a few steps. A huge fist grabbed at its bleeding face, though it continued to growl from the back of its throat.

* * *

Leland turned to look behind him, trying to find where Brad had gotten to, but the man in yellow had vanished from sight. No doubt he had used the distraction to make himself scare, leaving Leland to deal with the beast by himself.

_Figures-_

A huge balled-up fist slammed into his right cheek and knocked him flying onto his back, knocking the air form his lungs. He felt the copper tang of blood in his mouth, and then the monster hovered over him, ready to bring its massive boot down on his head for an instant kill. Leland rolled out of the way as the foot came down, and then quickly drew his knife, slashing it across the monster's ankle. The black material ripped open easily, and purple fluid splashed from the pallid flesh. The creature pulled back a little, giving him enough time to get to his feet and reload the M4, snapping the bolt back to chamber a round.

"Come on," he cried out, "I'm not done yet!"

The monster roared once more and lunged forwards, swinging a thick arm like a tree trunk. Leland ducked under the attack, and then dropped and rolled backwards to avoid another fist that cracked the concrete at its feet. He fired a few rounds into the exposed flesh on its right shoulder, though as usual the beast never flinched. Its blood seemed to be mixed in with a thick purple fluid, leaving slick patterns across the concrete.

"Goddamn it!" gasped Leland as he backed away frantically, firing a few more shots into the giant's broad chest and arms. He may as well have been shooting a brick wall for all the 5.56 rounds were doing. The grenades had more of an effect upon the creature, but he had to get some more range between the two of them before he could rely on the M203 again.

The creature let out another dull roar and charged at him. Leland responded by dropping and rolling away, and then making a run for the small group of storage sheds that were nearby, hoping that using the tight, narrow confines of the buildings would slow his pursuer down. He barged past a few zombies that had been approaching throughout the commotion, and a couple of them were subsequently clubbed or tossed aside by the hulking beast chasing him. It was like some unstoppable force, like the Terminator cyborg from the movie of the same name. No matter how fast he ran, it was always there, right behind him.

He broke out into an open spot between the sheds. The creature came behind him, roaring in a monstrous fashion. It swung its arm wide, and smashed a hole nearly ten feet wide through the side of one of the sheds. He shot it a few more times in the back as it tore its arm free, and then fired an M203 grenade. Flames and shrapnel engulfed its upper torso, and it let out a surprised grunt as the force of the blast smashed it head-first into the wall, dropping bricks and mortar onto its head as the ceiling caved in.

"How do you like that?" he yelled confidently, before turning and resuming his escape, ducking into one of the spacious parking garages. A few zombies lingered amongst the cars, just watching him blankly when he first appeared. Then the first one- a young man wearing a denim jacket and grey slacks, began to hobble towards him. In response, Leland snatched up a screwdriver which had been left in an open toolbox on a workbench and plunged it through the man's eye- deep enough to pierce the brain. He keeled over backwards, his arms seizing up spastically.

Then the monster appeared- crashing through the small doorway with such force that its broad shoulders destroyed the door frame- coming straight for him. Leland quickly slid over the hood of a red sedan, and the beast responded by smashing its fists down onto the bodywork, flattening the hood and the engine block with the sounds of crunching steel and shattering glass. The sudden force nearly knocked Leland from his feet- instead he nearly fell into the waiting arms of a second zombie, which he quickly pushed away with his boot. It fell to the ground, flailing wildly, and he took the opportunity to escape by dropping to the ground and rolling underneath a partially-open garage rolling door.

He scrambled to his feet quickly, realising that he had done a nearly full circuit of the yard, bringing him closer to where he had last seen Brad standing. A couple of dead zombies lay sprawled in the front doorway of the nearby apartment building- he must have gone that way. Leland hurried in the same direction, even as he heard the all-too familiar roar behind him, and a deep indentation appeared on the garage door as a massive fist slammed into it from inside.

"Damn it, don't you ever give up?" snapped Leland, almost out of breath, as he entered the building and raced up the stairs, feet pounding on the wood. Another furious roar sounded, and a second indent appeared. It would break free in time. And he would have to figure out a way to kill it before it caught up to him and killed him.

* * *

The steel of the garage door peeled open in a flower petal pattern, and the imposing figure of the Nemesis burst free into the open air, roaring in fury. Having finally managed to track down one of its assigned targets, it would show no signs of allowing its prey to make its escape.

Yet this one man- the one in a soldier's uniform- had stood in its way, distracted the killing machine long enough for the S.T.A.R.S member to flee into the network of back alleys and apartment buildings that comprised most of Raccoon City's geography. And now the monster wanted nothing more than to spill this man's blood, to tear his fragile body limb from limb. He could detect the exact cocktail of sweat and blood that comprised the man's unique body odour, and it could follow that right to him now.

The Nemesis advanced towards the nearby apartment door, flexing its fists in anticipation of the upcoming kill. It reached the door and simply walked though into the entry hall, despite the fact its head and shoulders smashed the top few inches of plaster above the frame. Inside, the scent trail lead around the corner and upstairs- so close that the B.O.W could almost taste it. It pounded upwards, its huge boots leaving small craters in the wood with each step it took.

The massive beast moved onwards and upwards, circling each stairwell like a shark circling the wounded seal in the water, preparing to close in for the kill when the time came. There was a sick tearing noise, and the lance-like tip of a purple tendril emerged from the folds of skin at the base of its right wrist, writhing like a cobra waiting to strike- much like the beast it was attached to. Beneath the Nemesis' skin, dozens of such tendrils writhed in tandem, eager to break free. The heavy coat and pants it wore forced a more human shape, and kept the unruly mutations in line.

"Hey!"

The Nemesis' single eye snapped up, and it saw the soldier standing at the top of the next flight of stairs, aiming his assault rifle towards it. "What's the matter? Running short on breath?"

The Nemesis let out a furious roar and charged forwards to disembowel the puny human in as short a time as possible. The tendril coiled around its wrist unfurled, preparing to launch forwards like a lance. Its massive feet began to pound up the fragile steps, wood splintering beneath its sheer weight, the floor in real danger of giving away then and there.

Then the human fired the M203 grenade launcher attached to the underbarrel of his rifle. Normally, the Nemesis would have just about enough room to dodge the projectile with ease, but on the stairway there was no room to dodge. Instead it let the explosive impact against the front of its broad chest, flames and shrapnel expanding around it like a balloon.

Then the explosion destroyed the wall to its right and the floor, and the Nemesis plummeted down in a hail of fire and wood splinters, roaring all the time as it fell. The flames touched off the gas boiler that was stored in the basement, and a huge sheet of flame rushed up to engulf the Nemesis.

* * *

The monster roared as Leland's grenade took out the flimsy walls and floor that it was standing amongst, and the huge beast simply dropped straight down like a boulder, roaring furiously as it slammed into the stairs below this floor and continued on, plummeting straight down into the basement without much of a fanfre, fire from a ruptured gas boiler rushing up to meet him, the heat singing his eyebrows and the fringe of his hair, forcing him to turn away. He listened for a few seconds more as the ambient sounds died down.

_Fuck me, it actually worked!_

He sighed in relief and snapped the M203 open, loading a new grenade inside and snapping it shut again. He peered over the edge of the stairwell, down into the gaping void created. He couldn't see the creature anymore, or hear it. With any luck it had been incapacitated long enough for him to get the hell out of there. He stepped back from the edge of the hole and glanced around, noticing how the flames were starting to take hold, creeping up the walls and across the ceiling.

"Gotta be another stairwell here in this building," he gasped looking back and forth down the long passage he was standing in, the one which ran through the entire building he was in. A few zombified residents approached him slowly, arms outstretched. He raised the M4 and fired, cutting down three former humans, their heads smashed apart. He started to jog down the corridor when a fourth one suddenly lunged out of an apartment to his immediate right. Without slowing down, Leland slammed the rifle butt into the creature's stomach, making it double over, and then landed an uppercut into its chin, snapping its head back to break its neck.

He ran on before its dead weight even hit the floor, but he could still hear many more approaching from somewhere close by- lethargic feet dragging over the carpeted floor, bumping into walls and other objects in their way, hollow moans filling his ears- so he couldn't linger. He ran on and on, past open apartment doors and slumped bodies that began to rise up at his presence, and he sped past a sign pointing towards the stairwell and fire exit.

_That's it!_

He stepped out onto a stairwell similar to the one that he had ascended minutes ago, yet this time the flight of stairs leading up was blocked with flaming debris, denying him passage. But as he wanted to go down rather than up, that was of no concern to him- the zombies that were thronging around the stairs was of his main concern. He turned and fired, blowing out the guts of an old man in a dirty vest and tearing off one of the arms from a teenage girl with red hair and wearing a green dress that had been soiled with blood and dirt hours ago. She spun away, knocked down by the impact of the shots.

A middle-aged man with receding hair and wearing a striped sweater tried to grab Leland from behind, but the sergeant turned and thrust the rifle butt into its nose, breaking it, before sweeping wide to send him stumbling back and toppling over the banister, falling down the stairwell and breaking his back as he landed awkwardly across the lower banister. A teenage boy tried his luck afterwards, but Leland pushed the rifle's barrel into his open mouth and fired a single shot- enough to explode his skull messily.

From somewhere behind him, a horrific noise sounded, and Leland spun around as fast as he dared, allowing the teenager to fall to the ground, leaving a messy splat where what was left of his head hit the carpet. "What the hell was that?" the sergeant asked, though he would soon be granted an answer. A few more zombies were approaching from the direction he had originally come from to escape from his hulking pursuer, but behind them a door slammed open and a third zombie emerged.

It was a man in his thirties, his blonde hair streaked with grease and dried blood, the green waistcoat and white shirt he wore stained with red as well. His pants were badly torn from the knee down, and one of his shoes was missing. But Leland took more interest in the fact that the man's exposed skin was bright red- almost blood-coloured- and his fingers had been replaced with three-inch claws that looked painfully sharp. His eyes seemed to burn with an unholy light as he looked both ways, and then they locked straight onto William Leland.

"Oh fuck," the sergeant managed, before the red-skinned zombie let out a murderous howl and sprinted straight down the passage towards him, moving at speeds assumed impossible by zombie standards. It barged straight through the zombies in its way, slamming one of them into the wall, and slicing open the throat of the other in its blind urge to get at the human before it. Leland raised his M4 and fired, the assault rifle exploding within the narrow space.

One of the 5.56 rounds smacked into the zombie's shoulder. There was a burst of red fluid and it was spun around by the sheer force of the round. It fell against the wall, supporting itself with its hands, before pushing off and coming for him again at full speed. Leland fired again, ripping open the zombie's stomach, but it didn't even slow down as it lunged for him, attempting to grab onto him in a bear hug motion.

Leland shouted in alarm and fell back, shooting his leg out, placing his boot into the centre of the zombie's chest and raising it up and over his head, even as it tried frantically grabbing at him with its claws. It sailed up and above, crashing through the banister and falling onto the stairs below, tumbling down the steps and making a considerable racket as it did.

Leland sighed in relief and struggled to his feet, only to hear more angered shouting from down the passage. He looked back down the passage- and saw at least three more red-skinned zombies come racing around the corner towards him, shrieking madly.

"Oh fuck!" cursed Leland, scrambling to his feet and making a run for the nearby stairs, rounding the corner and descending the first flight of steps just as the first zombie reached the landing- but he was moving so fast that he couldn't slow down in time and instead fell straight through the gap formed by the first zombie, crashing chin-first against the wall and knocking out several of its teeth. It let out a strangled grunt as it landed in a heap at Leland's feet, who subsequently let out a startled cry, and then promptly shot it through the face with his M4.

That left two more close on his heels though, and he quickly set off, descending the stairs at three at a time, hopping over the fallen corpse and circling around on the landings, narrowly dodging the normal zombies which lingered here and there, shoving the odd one which got too close out of his way. The red-skinned beasts were close on his heels though, and one of them nearly grabbed onto him, its claws tearing through the sleeve of his fatigue jacket instead. Leland then wrapped his fingers around the man's neck and slammed him face-first into the nearest wall, knocking it onto its back. Then he was off again, trying to desperately stay one step ahead of his pursuers.

He hit the second floor and nearly ran face-first into an obese female zombie, one half of her scalp practically skinned off of her skull, the other half displaying some mid-length auburn curls, her green vest top in danger of splitting open at any second. She growled as she turned and grabbed for him, but Leland swerved around her, smacking his M4's stock across her cheek, and there was a loud pop as her jaw dislocated. She span away, into the arms of the pursuing red-skinned zombies. Their sharp claws ripped her apart, so consumed were they in their blood frenzy. Leland descended the last set of steps, swinging around the banister so that he was running headlong down the corridor- only to see that the far wall was only a dead end formed by red brick.

_Damn it! Nowhere else to go...unless I improvise-_

He raised his M4, aimed for half a second, and then pulled the trigger on the M203. The grenade whistled down the passage and exploded against the far well, the blast of flame contained within the passage rushing back towards him, but thankfully Leland was standing just about far enough back to avoid the licking flames. The wave of heat still hit him in the face though, forcing him to turn his head away. He looked back as the rumbling through the building ceased, and he saw the wall was partially caved-in- but most of the brickwork was still largely intact.

"Fuck!" he cursed, snapping the launcher tube open and slotting another explosive shell inside. Behind him, another murderous howl was heard behind him- and then the red-skinned zombies charged into view, two more having joined the initial pair of creatures. One of them was a boy, a child- barely twelve years old, but the sharp claws and the glowing eyes showed he was as dangerous as the others.

Leland turned and instinctively fired the M4 on full auto, the hail of gunfire tearing apart the first two zombies, who only stopped moving when their torsos had been reduced to shredded flesh and muscle that could scarcely support the rest of their bodies. The third one- the boy- took a bullet to the temple, and he was spun off his feet onto the floor, half of his face blasted apart. The last one managed to squeeze past the deluge of gunfire and launched itself at Leland, claws outstretched, ready to sink into his flesh. Leland let his M4 hang loosely from its strap, and promptly drew his handgun, rasing the sights and firing a single shot. The bullet burrowed through the zombie's right eye and exploded out the back of its skull-

-and then its dead weight slammed into Leland, pinning him to the floor.

"Damn it!" the sergeant yelled, trying to shove the corpse off of him with one hand, still keeping a death grip on his handgun in the other hand. He groaned and let it fall limp across him, even as further down the hallway more zombies approached, no doubt drawn out by the commotion. He planted his hand on the zombie's chin and pushed once more, managing to push it a few inches back, and then planted a boot into the centre of its chest, kicking it back and freeing himself.

"I've had enough of you and your kind!" he yelled angrily, raising his arm and opening fire, cutting down two more undead walkers. Then he quickly scrambled to his feet- most of his torso soaked with the blood of that one he had been pinned underneath- and grabbed for his M4, readying the M203 launcher and aiming towards the crumbled wall. "Come on, let this work," he whispered, firing another explosive shell.

This time it had the required effect, blowing out most of the far wall, leaving a large enough hole for him to make his escape through. Cool outside air came flowing in through the gap, helping to combat the smothering effect of the fires that were starting to consume the building, threatening to bring it down on his head. Unfortunately, it also served as the metaphorical dinner bell for the dozens of zombies who had been congregating on the roads surrounding the buildings, and they began to shuffle towards the great burst of light and noise that had caught their very limited attention span.

"Thank God," whispered Leland, snapping the launcher tube open and slotting another shell inside, "time to get the hell out of this death trap." Somewhere close by, he heard an all-too familiar roar of fury, rising up from the bowls of this dusty brick building. Looked as though his little gambit still hadn't got rid of Mr Tall, Dark and Ugly- a thirty foot fall and a gas explosion hadn't slowed him down, and wouldn't have likely helped his temper either.

"Damn it," he cursed, looking up in time to see a few more zombies come shambling in through the hole he had just put in the wall. Holding back on the grenades unless he caused a larger building collapse, he opened up with good old-fashioned hot lead instead. The figures shuddered and jiggled like marionettes on strings before they collapsed to the ground, but there were many more coming in from behind, more than he could count on the fingers of both hands.

"Is the whole town like this?" he asked himself as he jogged forwards, standing on the small pile of rubble left in the wake of high-explosive grenade blasts. Standing on the crest of a chunk of concrete, he was overlooking the street out the front of the apartment block, choked with burning car wrecks and corpses almost picked clean to the bone by roving zombies. Across the street, a child's play park remained destitute and empty, one swing rocking gently in the breeze- he felt as though he had literally walked out into the apocalypse. Several of the undead stood around in a daze, but most of them were advancing on Leland now, eager to feed once more.

"Come on then!" he shouted, lowering his M4 and firing from the hip, "you want to eat, come and get it!" The first row of zombies crumpled like a house of cards, and he quickly reloaded as a second wave got dangerously close, continuing to pour down the gunfire. They were close enough that blood and brain matter was splattering back onto his clothes, across his face. There was no finesse to his actions, just a desperate ploy to keep the bastards away from him, but with the constantly swelling numbers, he had to come up with an exit strategy soon.

The rifle clicked on empty once more, and when he turned to reach for another magazine, another red-skinned zombie who had got too close for comfort made a desperate lunge for him. He looked into those glowing eyes, just waiting for the lethal blow to come-

BANG!

There was a sudden gunshot and the zombie's head simply popped like a cherry, its body thudding to the ground at his feet. Leland looked up, and saw a familiar yellow vest across the way. Brad had come back to help him.

"Come on!" the cowardly man yelled, waving his hand above his head, "this way!" Then he raised his pistol and fired a few more shots, each bullet popping a skull with relative ease.

Leland knew that it was better than just standing there like General Custer waging his last stand at the Little Bighorn, so he quickly snapped a fresh clip into his rifle and ran for it, pushing in between a trio of zombies and heading straight towards Brad's position, firing the M4 one-handed as he did, pushing the zombies back enough for him to slip past. A set of nails tried to grab his jacket, but he kicked out, knocking the female teenager to the tarmac.

"Hurry!" cried Brad, firing off one more shot and then pausing to reload his pistol. A moment later, Leland drew level with him, gasping for air.

"You came back at least!" he gasped, leaning heavily on his knees.

"It was the least I could do," responded Brad, "come on, we have to go now, before he catches up to us!"

As if to punctuate Brad's statement, there was a terrific crash and the wall beside where Leland had blasted a hole suddenly exploded outwards, the huge brute that had chased them into the lot behind the tenement blocks emerging into view, roaring furiously, flames licking at its immense arms and torso. It began to sprint right towards them, the fall into the basement having done nothing to slow it down or hurt it.

"Damn it!" cursed Leland, raising his rifle and firing the grenade launcher once again. The shell hit the monster dead-on in its centre mass, engulfing it and the car beside it in a roaring sphere of flame, that touched off the car's fuel tank and sent up another pillar of fire, but Leland turned to run after Brad rather than staying behind to see if it stayed down this time. They sprinted down yet another destitute back alleyway, corpses slumped in dark corners or shuffling to their feet as the humans approached.

A metal door to Leland's right burst open and another half dozen zombies poured out, growling and moaning in unison. He promptly turned and kicked the first one in the line onto the ground, unloading into the others, cutting them down on the spot, before rushing after Brad once again. He emerged into another back lot, this one taken up mostly by a basketball court that had been hosting a game when all this shit had hit the fan- a basketball lay discarded in the centre of the court, while several zombies in basketball shirts and shorts lumbered about.

Brad stood at the edge of the court, firing his pistol two-handed, dropping a zombie with each shot. Aside from the basketball players, at least another dozen undead citizens approached from all directions, eager to feed. Leland came up beside Brad and started to fire himself, setting the M4 to single-shot mode to save on ammo. Skulls popped and blood sprayed with each discharge, but the two men knew they couldn't stay there for too long.

"Where are we heading?" Leland shouted over the noise as he snapped a fresh magazine into his M4.

"The R.P.D building!" shouted Brad back, "it has to be at least somewhat safer than out on the streets!" Leland considered saying something about this grand plan, but in the absence of any alternatives suggestions, he had no choice but to go along with the panicky man. Besides, he was a US Army soldier cut off and on his own behind enemy lines (or something close enough to it), so what else could he do?

"Fine," he shouted instead, "which way?" He turned and fired a shot that scalped the top of the skull off of a teenage girl who was inches away from grabbing onto him.

"That way!" called Brad, pointing straight ahead towards an iron gate at the far end of the lot. "We cut through there it should be a clear route up towards the R.P.D building! Come on!" And with that, he set off at a running sprint, hopping over a few fallen zombie corpses.

"Wait!" Leland called, running after him, taking a few more precious moments to turn and gun down the last few zombies that had been creeping up behind them. The last body was still crumpling like a discarded puppet by the time he was turning and running after Brad, rifle hugged close to his chest. He'd made it about 15 yards when he heard the all-too familiar roar behind him, and he turned as quickly as he dared to see an immense black-clad form coming towards him, and a massive fist swinging itself towards his face-

He had no time at all to prepare for the crushing blow that hit him with the force of a freight train. His head snapped back so forcefully it was a miracle that his neck didn't break, and then he was flying backwards freely, arms pin wheeling freely. He smashed through a wooden door and went sliding back across a concrete floor, before his spine slammed up against heavy, and three of his ribs snapped with the sheer impact, causing him to scream in agony.

"No!" called Brad, having glanced back over his shoulder in time to see Leland get punched in the face by the massive beast pursuing him. He wondered briefly if he was still alive or not after that hit, but considering that the beast was already stalking forwards once again, it was likely he'd be dead in the next few seconds anyway. Much as it pained him, Brad couldn't do anything else for the poor man. He turned and ran on, through the gate and onto the street beyond, leaving him behind. Just like back in the Arklay Forest, when he had left his team mates to a horrific fate. Once again, he was fleeing from his responsibilities as a police officer.

* * *

Leland coughed, a sharp pain shooting through his body as blood burst from his mouth. His entire chest cavity was on fire, his lungs and other vital organs no doubt shredded by the broken ribs. Despite his best efforts, he had failed. He hadn't seen that punch coming, hadn't had enough time to react to it- and now he was doomed to die in some dingy storage shed in this armpit of a town, without anyone knowing how and why he had died.

He dragged himself back half an inch, but that half an inch felt like a marathon, any minute motion causing his shattered ribs to flare up again. He could see his vision darkening, could feel the sound around him starting to drown out. He didn't have long left to live, that much he was certain of, even without a degree in medicine. His M4 lay too far out of reach, but his Beretta was still in its holster- though that wouldn't do much against his brutish killer.

Speaking of which, he looked up weakly to see the creature tear what remained of the door off of its hinges before pushing into the storage shed, its broad shoulders and bald head chipping the concrete door frame. It started to pound towards him across the floor towards him, a low growl emanating from behind its slab-like teeth.

_So this is it-_

His parents had passed away years before and he was an only child, so he had no close family to speak off- the only person he could think of right then and there was Lucy Walker, the girl he had loved since High School, the one who had been oblivious of his feelings until a couple of years ago. But she would be marrying another man, and that hurt him more than anything he had ever experienced in his life- even this moment right now. And now she would never know about how he felt about her.

_I'm sorry Lucy..._

He slowly pulled the Beretta from its holster and looked up towards the monster as its shadow fell over him, a purple tendril ripping through the flesh of its wrist, ready to skewer him like a slab of meat. It was then that Leland noticed the smell of gasoline in the air, and finally realised that he was leaning up against a stack of red barrels. One of them had been knocked over during his brief flight, spilling a large puddle of flammable liquid across the floor.

He'd been thrown into the fuel store for the entire block. There was enough potential explosive here to bring down an entire city block if needed- and right now, Leland had no other choice, save for letting this monster have its way with him and then going on to kill Brad and whoever knew how many more people.

"Allright," he said weakly, lowering his aim so that he was aiming at the gasoline puddle, "guess it's time to end this." And with that, he pulled the trigger.

The brief moment of friction produced by the bullet deflecting off of the concrete caused a brief spark- but it was enough to set off the puddle, which promptly rushed into the spilled barrel, and then the entire store house was engulfed in a pillar of flame that engulfed Leland, the creature, and the dozen or so zombies who had been standing too close.

* * *

Half a block away, Brad Vickers flinched and let out a cry of surprise when he heard the immense explosion. He looked over his shoulder to see a great tower of flame and concrete chunks reaching nearly twenty feet into the air, from where he had last seen Leland being punched in the face by that towering creature in black. By the looks of things, the soldier had just given the world one last 'f-you' before he went.

What a brave man- despite being exhausted, cut off, and having no clue what was going on in that town, he had risked everything to save Brad's life. The man was a hero, or at least as close to a hero that you got in this Necropolis.

"Damn it," sighed Brad, running a hand through his hair before setting off again. He had to keep going, there had to be some safe place left in this damn city.

**A/N: Hey guys, first off I'd like to apologise once more for taking forever to get this story updated- I was mega-busy with real-life stuff, and was even considering discontinuing this story altogether- but as it's still fairly popular and a few other people have asked about it, I decided to push on to get it updated for all you readers out there.**

**I've been played a lot of Dead Island recently- it's a decent game despite its buggy nature and the inconsistent sound and graphics design- and the 'Infected' zombies that you fight are essentially that game's version of the Crimson Heads. When you've got three or four of them sprinting after you at full speed, screaming like hyenas, it's a classic squeaky bum moment, so I wanted to try and bring some of that tension and fear into Leland's encounter with the Crimson Heads in the apartment. **

**But that's enough from me right now- this story should only have a couple of chapters left to it, and then after that I can fully focus on my other projects for this site. R & R as always people, your reviews make all the hard work worth it.**


	15. Relief

Chapter 15: Relief

**September 28****th**** 1649 hours**

Major Eric Foster supped down the last of his coffee with one swift motion, and then set the empty mug down on his table, beside the latest situation reports from the other refugee centres surrounding the city. The situation wasn't looking good.

The southern centre- manned by Lieutenant Fletcher and his unit- had witnessed a couple of 'incidents' over the last couple of days. First a large number of refugees had tried to force their way past the barricades to get back into the city, and then two others had attempted to sneak past via one of the old forest routes- nearly getting themselves hurt in the process. Luckily they were still in one piece, but the troops were stretched thin as it was and they couldn't afford to take in anymore refugees either. Still no sign of Leland's fire team either. This was becoming more and more of a disaster as time passed.

But Elghan's team had managed to save the woman and her son from the city, which was something at least. The Corporal was speaking to her now in one of the smaller tents, her son constantly held close, sleeping softly. He was at least young enough not to comprehend the scale of what he and his mother had just survived through, and she was doing a good job of keeping her head on, though she looked on the verge of breaking down at the drop of a hat.

The radio set at his left elbow started to crackle as a signal came through. The Major nearly jumped out of his skin, and then quickly scooped up the mouthpiece, holding it close to his face. "This is Foster, over."

"Major, its Richards," came the voice of the officer commanding the Raccoon County units that were managing the relief effort in Raccoon City. A little bit of a stuck-up by-the-book runt who felt that these kinds of duties were beneath him, but always willing to lower himself if it meant he got the attention of the top brass. He'd ensured that Petrucci had been removed from the equation and that Foster slotted into the gap left over as neatly as possible, to ensure the entire operation proceeded smoothly.

"Ah Colonel, what can I do for you?" responded Foster smartly, faking a smile even if his superior couldn't see it.

"I just got your report that one of your teams bought a survivor back from the city," Richards replied, "is that true?"

"It is, sir," replied Foster, leaning back in his seat. "A mother and her son. One of my Corporals is interviewing her now, hopefully we can try and get a better idea as to what's going on in Raccoon City."

"I see- and what about any other missions into the city?"

"Not risking it anymore, sir," sighed Foster, "Sergeant Leland's fireteam never turned in, and we've heard nothing from them ever since they were deployed in. I think it's safe to say they're all MIA, sir."

"Fair enough," replied the Colonel. "I'll make sure that every other unit on quarantine follows the same order. Carry on, Major." And with that, Richards was gone. Foster set the radio down just as he became aware of someone approaching from his peripheral vision, and he glanced up.

"We're finished with the interrogation," Corporal Elghan announced, snapping to attention.

"So what have we learned?" asked Foster with a rub of his brow.

"Well, she doesn't know much about what exactly caused all of this," the Corporal started, "just that it all began on the day of the football match. Lots of riots in the inner city, and then everything went to hell just afterwards."

"It would explain why we couldn't reach the R.P.D or any of the other emergency services," Foster reasoned.

"Speaking of which," Elghan continued- "she keeps asking about her husband. He was a member of the R.P.D- Lenny Bristol, his name was. Perhaps one of the other refugee centres has picked him up or heard something..." His voice trailed off, aware that it was a slight chance to pin your hopes upon, but hope was what she and her son needed in this time of madness.

"Agreed," nodded Foster. "I'll trust you to make the call, Corporal. Of course we can't keep them here indefinitely, but until then make sure they're well looked after."

"Yes Major," replied Elghan. Then with another salute, he turned and walked away.

* * *

Zac slammed the door shut behind him, grabbing for a nearby mop and thrusting the wooden shaft through the handles to act as a crude bar to deny access. He slowly stepped away as something started to slam against the doors, eager to get inside, a horrific shrieking noise trying to work its way into his brain. The Glock was up in his trembling hands, his heartbeat a frantic drumbeat inside his ribs. Something wet and slick pounded on the door from outside, and then faded after a few more seconds.

_Oh my God, oh my God, what the fuck was that?!_

He didn't have a clear answer- it had a vague human outline, yet its entire being seemed to writhe and squirm as though its flesh were literally alive. It had slid out of the ventilation duct like a snake, leaving a trail of foul-smelling slime behind it. The gunfire had done little to slow it down, but the kinetic force of the bullet impacts had managed to push it back, enough for him to slip back out the door he had come in through- and that had marked the start of their little cat and mouse chase.

No matter where he hid in the hospital, it found him- seeking him out as easily as a bloodhound tracking down the escaped convict. He would usually find a few minutes of solace before it found him, forcing him to move. Even down in the basement levels- cold concrete walls and the sound of trickling water close by, possibly from a water main or a sewer channel- he wasn't safe. He'd managed to seal himself into one of the larger rooms in the basement- what it was used for he couldn't guess, although he could see a dividing wall sealed with a heavy-looking door and a pane of reinforced glass.

He peered through the glass, but couldn't make much out aside from the old medical equipment inside- gurneys, IV stands and other detritus- and what looked like a massive oven behind some steel bars. No, not an oven, a _furnace. _But why would they have needed something like that in a hospital of all places? He glanced down at the control panels in front of the window, lights blinking on some of them. He didn't feel like pressing any of them as a test. The label above read 'Hi-Temperature controls'.

But that wasn't the most important thing right now. He had to think of a way to get out of this damned hospital, to get to safety. Coming here had been a big mistake, to say the least- there were no safe places left in this city. Everything that had happened in the clock tower and on the streets of Raccoon City had proved that point.

"Damn it," he sighed, sitting himself down on an office swivel chair, rubbing his face. He still wished that he had his cell phone or some other kind of device with which to communicate with the outside world- something with which to tell his parents that he was still alive. But at the rate that things were going, there was a good chance he wouldn't live long enough to see them again- maybe he should have just accepted that fact instead of fighting against the inevitable...

"Shut the hell up!" he chided himself, maybe a bit too loudly. "You'll find a way out of this, you'll find...a way..."

He trailed off when he noticed the ventilation cover up in the far corner of the ceiling. And the all-too familiar squeliching noises coming from inside.

_Oh God no-_

Zac nearly hit the ceiling as the cover came flying out of its setting- slamming against the far wall with a metallic clang- and a black figure slid out of the vent, sliding down the wall and landing upon the floor, leaving streaks of black slime as it went. Zac backed away frantically as the figure rose to its shaky feet, its 'flesh' writhing and squirming in tandem. Then it reached its arms out, the black surface receding enough to expose a pair of human hands reaching for him with pale, emaciated fingers.

Zac was amazed that he still had the co-ordination to raise his Glock and fire. Three bullets hammered into the thing's chest, pushing it back a few feet. As it did, a clump of the black swarm which covered it dropped to the floor, a wet slap sounding as it burst into a number of shrivelled, slime-covered bodies.

_The hell?!_

But the advantage didn't last long, as the creature came for him again, its hands extending out into black, grasping tendrils. Zac put a bullet into one of the arms, and it seemed to retract, hurt, before he slipped past the black creature and through the sliding door into the furnace room itself. His one way out of the room remained barred.

"Leave me the hell alone!" screamed Zac in frustration, as the creature slapped after him, leaving an ever-present black trail behind it. He shot it three more times as it advanced, each shot tearing more clumps off of the writhing _things_ which covered its human form but doing little to slow it down. Soon he found himself backed right up in front of the furnace itself as the creature loomed closer. Zac tried to pull the trigger again.

_Click._

The dry sound of the slide locking back was all he heard, and his expression changed to one of utter shock and horror as the black shadow fell over him. He looked up into a writhing black mass that constituted the thing's head, and saw the inevitable ticking down of what little life he had left. As it lunged in for him, he managed to slip around the side of it, grabbing for an old IV stand instead.

"Get the hell away!" he yelled, swinging it like a baseball bat. The steel impacted against the creature's ribs, and it stumbled sideways, the blood pack which had been hanging from the top of the stand dropping off and slapping against the floor as it burst. He then swung another time across its 'head', and a few more black shapes flew off from the force. He saw the writhing little objects a lot clearer now.

_Leeches?! What the hell?_

He turned to face his aggressor once more, but the black creature seemed much more focused on the blood bag that he had just splattered across the floor. It turned away from Zac and approached, before it deliberately flopped down onto its stomach, its 'head' hovering above the puddle of blood, the black swarm seeming to part to allow a series of probing tongues to emerge, lapping the blood up as though it were a dog drinking from its water bowl. Though the sight was incredibly bizarre by the standards of everything he had seen in Raccoon since the shit had hit the fan, Zac knew it was his opportunity to make a run for it. Grabbing his pistol from the floor, he raced out of the room.

He stood in front of the control panel for the rooms now, his hand hovering over one large dial which controlled the general temperature of the opposite room- quickly, he cranked the dial from 'Low' all the way around towards 'High'. As he did, a series of red lights flickered all across the panel, before a low 'thunk' signalled that the connecting door was now locked. Behind the glass, the creature rose to its feet as a number of red emergency lights blurred.

The thing tried to walk, but Zac could already tell by the 'wavy' effect that he could see in the air now that the temperature was already rising by the second. Then it slowed down and then stalled entirely mid-step, its black surface starting to bubble and forth, almost like hot milk coming to the boil. Then clumps began to slide off onto the floor, leaving black puddles of frothing liquid behind. The figure swayed back and forth a few times, and then it finally fell forwards.

It hit the ground with a loud slap, the rest of its black 'skin' sloughing off and spreading across the tiled floor, bubbling and melting much like all the other times. In their wake, they left behind a still-intact human corpse, stripped of all its clothing save for its brown work shoes and its tattered, shredded pants.

Zac stared at the babbling pool for a few more seconds, and then he finally cranked the dial back down to 'Low', and after a few more seconds, the blaring lights and the automatic lock-down subsided. With a cautious manner, Zac slowly approached the dividing door, stepping inside of the other room to closer examine the fallen creature.

The..._swarm _which formed the creature's surface hadn't been a single entity. Rather, it seemed to be have been formed from hundreds- if not thousands- of huge, black leeches, each of them at least ten centimetres in length, their undersides featuring a single, gaping mouth ringed with dozens of teeth. And they had attached themselves to this poor soul and somehow taken control of him to move around the hospital. It was bizarre and horrifying at the same time- yet another thing to be added to the list of sights he had been subjected to.

He leaned in closer to scrutinise the corpse in more detail. It was a middle-aged man with black hair and a thick moustache, his face forever locked into an expression of shock and resignation- like he had seen what was to become of him, and yet he had still accepted it in the end. His flesh was covered in countless tiny bites and scars as well, the flesh pale from blood loss. Zac couldn't tell if he was one of the hospital doctors or just another unlucky civilian.

Zac retrieved his Glock pistol, making sure that he took the time to reload it with the one spare magazine he had. He spent a few moments finding the release which would dump the spent magazine, and then inserted the new magazine- after realising that he had tried to put it in back-to-front the first time- and then pulled the slide back firmly to ensure that it was chambered. With that done, he left the room and headed straight for the elevator at the far end of the basement hallway.

He stepped inside and pressed the button for the fourth floor, one which he hadn't managed to investigate thoroughly yet. The doors slid shut with a familiar 'bong' sound effect, and then there was the light humming of the cables and gears as the steel box lifted up and up. Zac's breathing was the only other sound within the confined space, short and ragged, the pistol rattling in his hands. Then there was the second 'bong' as the elevator reached its destination- quickly followed by subdued moaning that made his blood run cold.

_Oh no-_

The elevator doors parted to reveal the lightly swaying forms of over half a dozen zombies, packed into the corridor length just beyond the open doors. Half of them were doctors in the familiar white coats and expensive shirts, and the other half were in soiled and shredded patient scrubs. They just stood there at first- then the penny seemed to drop and a few of them locked eyes with the student.

Zac's hand lashed out and hit the 'close doors' button- which they did, just as two zombies threw themselves forwards head-first, blocking the closing doors with their bodies, filthy nails raking for Zac. The student fell back against the wall behind him, crying out in horror as he did. Then he lowered his arm and shot one of the zombies straight through the head, letting its body flop to the ground uselessly. The second one nearly grazed Zac's forearm with its nails, and he subsequently put three bullets into its chest, tearing through cloth, flesh and bone. When it still didn't relent, he put one final bullet through the centre of its face, and it collapsed backwards into the corridor. Its blood splattered across the walls and elevator doors.

And then the doors started to open once more on default.

"No!" Zac found himself shouting as he slammed his hand on the buttons once more, closing the doors as filthy fingers tried to pull rotted bodies inside of the elevator. Unfortunately for Zac, the flaccid body of the first zombie he had shot prevented them from closing fully- and left him at the mercy of the zombies trying to force their way in from the corridor outside. Their empty moans and rabid growls filtered in at him, overwhelming his senses.

He immediately tried to use his foot to nudge the body back out into the corridor, but it was a lot heavier than it looked, and the blood leaking from its fatal bullet wound meant he couldn't get ideal footing either. After nearly slipping and falling onto his rear, Zac shot a female doctor through the forehead and perforated the collarbone on another zombie in patient scrubs.

"Damn it! Fuck off!" he screamed in frustration, grabbing onto the collar of the body blocking the doors and trying to heft him up off of the floor and back into the corridor. He managed to shift it a few inches before a set of probing fingers brushed his bicep. He cried out and pulled his arm back to narrowly avoid a set of chomping teeth. Laying on the ground, he planted his foot against the man's shoulder and pushed hard, shoving the crumpled body outside of the elevator, leaving a sticky trail of blood behind it.

The doors started to shut again, but the zombies still out in the hallway gripped onto the edges tight, keeping them forced open. Their hungry growling had started to ingrain into Zac's brain, and he wanted nothing more than to just get away from there so he didn't have to put up with it any longer. He scrambled onto his feet and slapped the control panel once again, trying to force them closed again. The doors slid in once more and finally shut- slicing off several zombie fingers into the bargain.

"Aw shit," Zac cursed, tempted to throw up, but he slapped the button for the roof instead, the moans from outside fading away as the steel box ascended. Inside, the elevator resembled a charnel house, with blood smeared across the floor and up the walls, alongside the severed fingers and chunks of brain tissue.

When the doors opened, Zac rushed outside, leaning heavily on his knees and coughing and retching. He then took a few more breaths, before he finally had the sense to glance upwards to investigate the hospital rooftop. All he could see was the landing pad for the chopper ambulance, but looking beyond that he could the true extent of the devastation engulfing the city.

Countless massive fires were burning all across the city, some of them engulfing entire apartment or tower blocks, or articulated trucks and other large vehicles. Elsewhere, he could see the veritable seas of zombies that choked the larger streets and avenues, as well as the countless car wrecks that dotted the blocks here and there. He could see the city's landmarks as well- the R.P.D building, City Hall, the university buildings by the river, and- close by- the imposing structure of St Michael's Clock Tower and the old factory behind the park.

A few days ago, the Midwest knew Raccoon City as a beautiful and tranquil place to visit for a weekend or longer holiday. And now, it was just a damned place filled with the legions of the dead and other horrific monsters.

With a deep sigh, Zac slumped down and spread his legs out so he was sat in the centre of the helicopter landing pad. Then he put the handgun down beside him and buried his head in his hands with a loud groan. He was cornered now, with nowhere to go back- unless he fancied taking a jump off of the edge of the roof, into the waiting arms of the zombies below, or to swallow the bullet. Despite not being overly religious growing up, he knew that suicide was considered a sin by some religions- a coward's way out. And despite everything, Zac didn't consider himself a coward.

With another sigh, he looked around him, trying to make sense of everything that had happened.

* * *

Ryan was restless again. He groaned a lot loudly than before and tried to roll over suddenly. Seeing a show that would result in him falling onto the floor, Amy and Lenny were check to step forward and grab onto his arms and torso, holding him in place as best they could. Ryan continued to groan- sounding as though he were trying to say something- as Amy put a hand across his forehead.

"He's burning up again!" she exclaimed, her voice rising.

"Damn it," sighed Lenny, grabbing for a nearby cloth that had already been soaked in cold water for a prior fever that Ryan had developed. "Here, dab him again." He passed it to the redhead, who promptly began to dab it across her class mate's forehead to try and ease his fever away.

A short distance away, just beside the store windows, Steven Dreyfus sighed and looked over at Kelly. "We can't keep sitting around like this. He's not getting any better and what if the cavalry's not even coming?"

"What do you mean?" asked the young woman. Despite the circumstances, she still looked remarkably calm.

"Just look outside," whispered Steven, pointing out through the window shutters. "You've seen how big of a mess this city is in. It would be far too much of a risk for the military to come through here on foot...all the main roads are blocked with car wrecks or those _things_."

"But they have to try!" Kelly retorted sharply. "They can't just leave us here to die! They just...can't"- her voice cracked and then petered off, before she turned away, one hand lifting up to wipe away a couple of tears which trickled down her filthy cheeks. Steven held his tongue for a few seconds, before he approached cautiously.

"Hey, I'm...sorry," he said slowly, "I guess that I haven't exactly been very tactful lately. It's just that this isn't a very...normal situation we're stuck in, and we can't expect a normal response. Who knows what the military will do next..."

"It's- it's alright," she responded, turning to face him, arms held across the front of her chest in a protective gesture. "I know you didn't mean any harm, Steven. It just...this was the last thing I needed. Seems like someone up there"- she pointed a finger towards the ceiling- "still hates me."

"What do you mean?" asked the older man. She turned her away, shaking her head slowly and biting her lip, as though debating whether or not she wanted to open up to this man that she scarcely knew. But in the end, she relented.

"Three years ago...my brother was killed in a traffic accident."

Steven blinked in shock. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright," she replied, biting down on her lower lip once more. "He was driving down a country road so he could come visit us, close to midnight, when some asshole who was too drunk to know any better slammed into him head-on. My brother didn't stand a chance." Steven didn't say anything else, he just stood by- somewhat uncomfortably- as this woman spilt her guts in front of him.

"He- he wasn't just like a brother to me, he was like my best friend. He would have done anything for me, and now my entire life had been turned upside down. And it didn't end there- my mom and dad's relationship was never the same after that. The grief of that loss was too much for my dad to bear- he just couldn't keep a brave face on things, and he walked out on us both after the first year."

Steven honestly didn't know what to say. What with everything this girl had been through, she must have assumed that the zombie apocalypse was just the most recent phase of this personal vendetta against her, so to speak.

"And now this..." her voice cracked and choked up, and she looked down at the floor. "I, I don't know how much longer I can take this..."

"Hey," said Steven, lowering his voice. "You're doing great so far. Trust me, you'll be fine. We _all _will." She looked him straight in the eye, before a smile crossed her face.

"For someone who doesn't have much tact, you speak a lot of sense."

"Well, you try having two daughters," Steven responded plainly with a lopsided smile of his own. "And I know I have to keep strong if I want to stay alive long enough to see them and their mother again. You need to be strong too, Kelly. You've managed this far."

* * *

Back outside of the city, Corporal Tobias Greene paced back and forth, having lit up yet another cigarette just moments ago. Though he'd been trying to give up on smoking prior, this entire incident had caused his habit to flare up painfully once again. And who wouldn't under this level of stress?

He'd tried to stop them going in- oh, how he had tried, even after playing along a little with the others. But Lieutenant Fletcher- who had harboured the suspicion against Umbrella's actions ever since they had sat in on that briefing a couple days prior- had agreed to allow the next helicopter to take in one of those annoying young men in (Cameron, wasn't it?) to see how things were in the city. That Blackhawk had long since left the staging area, en route to Raccoon City and whatever lurked there

Predictably, Lindeman hadn't reacted very well to the news, threatening all kinds of bodily harm, but he had convinced the old man that he would take care of things. How exactly, he didn't know, but his thoughts returned back to that package he still had stuffed away with the rest of his kit, away from prying eyes. Though every synapse in his brain was begging him to have another look in the packet to see what had been left for him, logic suggested he do otherwise, at least until he had some alone time again.

He had managed to get the situation with the refugees down to a manageable situation- not to the extent where he could afford to take it easy, but at least to an extent where he didn't have one of the other soldiers coming to him every five minutes asking for help with something. The refugees were calm enough, despite the odd hysterical moment, but the Corporal didn't blame them frankly- displaced from their normal lives and the ones they loved, with no information on what was going on.

He tossed the spent cigarette to the floor, crunching it beneath the heel of his boot. Then he sighed and turned away, heading straight for where the soldiers had been keeping their kit, far away from the civilians. He tracked down the parked truck and dug his pack out from underneath the huge pile of other packs, tracking it down via the name tag sewn into it. After pulling it free, he slung it around and opened it up- after making sure that he wasn't being watched, of course. He quickly found the package and emptied it out end-first. A single object fell onto the truck's flatbed with a resounding 'thunk'.

Greene stared down at it, before he carefully scooped it up. "What the hell...?" he whispered.

It was a .38 special revolver, plated with chrome, the grip featuring some kind of foamy material that he wasn't entirely familiar with, the area where the serial number would be now featuring a deep, rough gouge in the metal.

_The fuck?! What the hell is this for? Unless when Lindeman means to take care of them as in..._

His mind racing, Greene pulled out the cell phone and dialled the number saved in, as he hopped down from the truck bed and made his way over towards the shadows of another parked truck. The other line continued to ring through for what seemed like an age, before there was finally a click and an answer.

"You do realise it is massively inconvenient for me to step out of these meetings constantly," the smug voice of Lindeman sighed.

"Damn it, a gun?!" Greene shot back, cutting straight to the point. "Is this what you had in mind about 'taking care' of things?!"

"Oh come on Corporal, you're a smart man," Lindeman retorted with a scoff, "I'm sure that even you could have worked that one out for yourself."

"Damn it, I am not crossing that line!" Greene growled, his anger rising, though he had to dial back on the volume of his voice when he saw a trio of fellow soldiers coming close as they went to get their own kit bags. "Espionage is one thing, but murder? I don't fucking think so!"

"Well that is a shame to hear," Lindeman responded calmly, "but I don't think you need reminding of what has happened to Raccoon City to begin with. Our corporation has instigated a tragedy responsible for the deaths of 100,000 American citizens, all because of one little mistake...do you really think that a couple more will tax us anymore?

"Besides," he continued, "you've no doubt noticed that weapon has no serial number left on it so it can't be traced, and that material on the grip means it won't pick up your fingerprints or any other genetic material. Essentially foolproof."

"This is bullshit..." whispered Greene, taken aback by Lindeman's cold manner.

"The world I deal with is half built on bullshit," Lindeman responded. "You know what is at stake. Not just for us, but for yourself as well."

_Click._

And with that, the Corporal was left on his own once more, with still little to no clue of what he was meant to do. He stared down at the cell phone for a long time, tempted to smash it into little pieces and forget about the whole horrid business, but in the end he tucked it into his pocket, and then stuffed the revolver away into his pack for later.

"Yo, Greene!" shouted the familiar voice of Sergeant Bourne, and as Greene hopped down from the flatbed of the truck, he saw the older man appearing from the direction of the command tent. "What are you up to back there?"

"Just getting some peace and quiet," the Corporal responded.

"Well, the Lieutenant wants to go over the numbers with you," Bourne replied.

"Course he does," sighed Greene, slipping past. "We're already past full capacity as it is!" he then called out, frustrated.

"Asshole," muttered Borune, turning away.

* * *

Ryan had thankfully calmed down somewhat since his latest burst of fits, but his fever remained, even as Amy and Lenny had took the time to wet the cloth again and make sure that he was as cool as possible. Steven and Kelly had returned to peeking out through the front shutters, just watching the zombies outside.

Steven was focused on one particular specimen standing directly across from the store. It was a young man in grey jeans and a yellow t-shirt- he was just standing directly in front of a brick wall, staring intently into the brickwork as though it were the most fascinating thing ever.

"Not too smart are they?" Kelly said from beside him, nearly making Steven jump out of his skin.

"No, they're not," he agreed. "But still...they're still dangerous. Eating is all they seem to care about. Who knew this is what I would be expecting when I flew into Colorado airport a few days ago?"

"I'm sorry this wasn't in the tourist brochures," joked Kelly.

"You see?" said Steven, turning towards her with a slight smile. "Keep your spirits up, try and look on the funny side with everything."

Kelly smiled back and went to say something else, but she trailed off when she- and everybody else in the store- heard a strange thumping sound approaching. It wasn't at street level, but rather it was above their head...above the building's ceiling. They saw Lenny glance up and around, before realisation slashed across his face.

"What is that?" asked Amy, glancing around in confusion.

"That's...helicopter blades," Lenny answered, rushing to gather up the distress flares from the pack they had been stored in.

"What?" asked Steven blankly, as a rush of sheer emotion began to rush into him like a tidal wave- namely, the thought that they were going to be rescued from this hell hole. The fact he hadn't any time to prepare himself for this sudden development didn't help either."

"A helicopter, you know!" shouted Lenny impatiently, clearly as eager to leave as the others were. "Big metal thing with rotors, can fly!" he continued, holding the flares awkwardly in one hand, his pistol in the other.

"Holy shit," exclaimed Amy loudly, "we're getting out of here, aren't we?!"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Lenny countered, before he shoved the flares boldly into Steven's fumbling hands. The Brit looked down at them as though he was expected to do some miraculous thing with them, but Lenny put him relatively at ease. "Just tear the tops off and throw them- don't hold them for too long and for Christ's sake, don't look directly at the light!"

Then the officer approached the front door of the store, and opened it up with a savage kick that had clearly been used a few times in the past. He stepped out into the open street, glancing over his shoulder and indicating for Steven to follow after him. The thumping helicopter blades were drawing closer and closer by the second- they had to act quickly lest they miss their chance or rescue.

Steven spent a few moments working out how to best activate the flare, before he finally screwed the top away, nearly being blinded by the intense green light which erupted from the stick. He quickly tossed the lit flare into the street- rolling it along the tarmac several feet- before he repeated the process with the others. Soon enough, a column of bright green smoke was billowing up into the sky.

And sure enough, the commotion was starting to draw the former citizens of Raccoon City out of the shadows. A low murmur of moaning began to rise, and Steven could see the first couple of shambling figures emerging out of a nearby store- one of them being a grey-haired man wearing a shopkeeper's apron, blood framing an eerie grin.

BANG!

Steven nearly jumped out of his skin as Lenny, fired, putting a bullet through the man's forehead and dropping him like a sack of sand. Then he turned his aim and shot two more zombies dead that were coming a little too close for comfort. He was trying to keep a landing space clear.

"Get inside!" the officer yelled. "Help the others to move Ryan!" Then he swung his pistol up and shot one more zombie through the left eye, a rotten _mulch _noise being heard as half its skull turned to the consistency of jelly in an instant. _"Now!"_

Steven turned and rushed inside of the store, being met with the concerned stares of Amy and Kelly. "Come on, we're leaving!" he urged, coming up beside Ryan.

"What?" asked Kelly, dumbstruck. "As in, right now? We're getting out of here?!"

"Yes, as in 'right now'!" Steven shouted back, the intensity of the current situation starting to show. The thumping of the helicopter rotors were coming closer and closer, almost completely disguising the sharp retorts of Lenny's pistol outside.

"Oh shit," Amy exclaimed as she began to gather up anything they might need, piling it on top of Ryan, who was in no position to complain at the current moment in time. "We're getting out of here. We're actually getting out!"

Out in the street, the helicopter rotors were overwhelming now- directly overhead. This was it- they were coming in to land, to extract them from this damned place and to safety. Lenny stood in the middle of the circle of smoke thrown up by the flares, waving his arms frantically above his head. Then he turned and ran inside of the store, holstering his pistol as he did.

"They're setting down now," he explained, "we good to go?"

"Just about," Amy responded as she pulled the backpack onto her shoulders.

"Okay, just wait for my signal," Lenny ordered, as he looked back out into the street. A few seconds later, the chopper itself touched down- it was a massive beast painted green, its rotors throwing up a downdraft which sent litter and small pieces of debris tumbling away and rattled away at steel shutters on shop windows. It was clear to see that it was a military vehicle, from the company and regiment badge which had been stencilled onto the body, as well as the men in army uniforms manning the big machine guns mounted on each side of the chopper. As soon as its landing skis touched down on the tarmac, Lenny stepped outside, before turning and waving his hand to urge the others into following.

"Come on, let's go," ordered Steven, as he and Amy hefted Ryan up into the air and began to waddle towards the open doors. He groaned lightly, but otherwise he remained quiet as they approached the chopper. One of the soldiers inside- a man wearing a flight helmet and a safety harness- unclipped himself and approached to offer his aid.

"Help me!" he called out to the men manning the machine guns, who both left their posts to help drag Ryan and his makeshift stretcher onto the chopper's deck.

"He's unconscious, but he'll live!" Lenny shouted as he pulled himself up into the chopper itself. "Hurry up, before more of those things come!" he then yelled, that statement mostly directed towards his companions, but also towards the soldiers- he knew full well that the chopper's noisy blades would draw out more undead.

As if to confirm his fears, he looked through to the opposite side of the chopper's bay, and he could see the figures approaching in a shambling manner. He bit his bottom lip and turned to help the others heft Ryan up onto the chopper's deck. But he was only about halfway through the process when he saw that one of the other chopper crew was suddenly reaching out towards the figures with outstretched arms.

"Come on! I'll pull you in!"

"What the fuck is he doing?!" Lenny shouted, and the flight crew who had moved to help them initially looked up, his eyes wide in shock. "He's going to get us all killed!" the R.P.D officer then added. The crew member seemed to agree as his eyes went wide in shock.

"Shit!" he cursed, pulling his pistol free from its holster and scrambling towards the other side of the chopper, leaving the others to struggle with getting Ryan in. The other crew member seemed to have finally noticed what was wrong with the people of Raccoon City as he had frozen up as he stared into those gray, lifeless eyes of a man wearing a blue shirt and missing most of the flesh on one cheek.

Then a hand clamped down on his shoulder and pulled him back into relative safety. "Stay away from them! They're crazy!" yelled the other crew member, promptly shooting the blue-shirted man in the head with his drawn pistol. The gunshot rang out like a dinner bell through the streets, no doubt only serving to draw even more undead to their location. As he shot two more zombies dead, one of the chopper's gunners scrambled to take up position behind his mounted gun once again.

"What are you doing?!" half-screamed the young man frantically, but he was quickly drowned out as the gunner thumbed the trigger of his huge weapon, sending out explosive peels of gunfire. Lenny was just about able to see the horrific effects of the impacts against soft tissue when he heard Kelly scream frantically from behind him.

The R.P.D officer spun around in time to see the throng of zombies who had come a little too close for comfort towards the chopper for Lenny's sake. One of them- a rake-thin man with his ribs visible through his stomach- was just inches away from grabbing onto a handful of Kelly's hair. Lenny swore and reached for his Beretta.

"Get the hell away from her!" yelled Steven, stepping forwards and throwing a punch into the side of its head. The zombie let out a strangled growl and staggered sideways, before it quickly turned and lunged for Steven instead. The Englishman let out a shout of surprise and horror as its filthy fingers groped at his collar, trying to grab on-

BANG!

A gunshot rang out and half of the man's head exploded into the consistency of soup, before its dead weight slammed onto the tarmac, leaving a surprised Steven to stare down as the rest of its brain leaked out into a rapidly-expanding puddle. He then turned to face Lenny, who just held his pistol up into the aiming stance, smoke gently issuing from the barrel.

"You alright?" he asked eventually.

"Yeah, I'm fine- thanks to you," Steven responded.

"Hurry it up, people!" called out one of the soldiers as he took up position on the mounted machine gun just beside them, and then opened fire- the booming retorts threatening to rupture their ear drums.

"Alright, you heard the man!" called out Lenny, dropped onto the tarmac once more. He ducked down and helped heft the lower end of Ryan's stretcher up onto the chopper's flight deck, as Steven hopped up himself and helped pull the stretcher fully onto the deck. Amy and Kelly pulled themselvess in shortly afterwards, ignoring the zombies approaching from down the street.

"OK, everyone's loaded up!" yelled the gunner, glancing over his shoulder.

"Get us out of here, now!" screamed the flight crewman with his weapon drawn, taking the time to shoot a zombified construction worker right between the eyes. In his seat, the chopper's pilot nodded, turning to his controls. A few moments afterwards, the chopper began to lightly lift into the air, leaving the zombified civilians behind. A couple of them managed to get their fingers onto the edge of the flight deck, but they lacked the strength to hang on- subsequently, they were left behind as it was soon out of their reach. They remained standing in the street though, reaching up pathetically with their bony hands.

As Lenny peered down at the blank, pallid faces below him, he didn't realise the familiar figure who was doing the same on the other side of the chopper's transport bay. After a few seconds of silence, he leaned back inside.

"What's going on?" he asked to no-one in particular. "What the hell was wrong with those people? They looked like dead men walking!"

"That's probably because they are, good sir," responded Steven sarcastically, looking over at him. "The dead have risen in Raccoon City and are now wandering the streets seeking to make everyone else alive join them," he continued. Though his words sounded dramatic, he honestly didn't have the energy to put any effort into being deadly serious.

"It might sound ludicrous, but he's probably right," added Kelly, locking eyes with the flight crew member. She noticed how he was holding her gaze longer now, the gears in his mind whirring over and over as he processed what he had just been told. She figured that it would have been a lot for anyone to take in.

"You can say that again," added Lenny, throwing his Beretta down on the deck and cradling his head in his hands. "Those freakin' zombies are everywhere!"

The young man looked at him as though he had just grown a second head. "Did you just say zombies?" he asked, incredulously. "Zombies don't exist!"

"Then what else would you call them?" asked the other crew member as he looked around, his face showing consternation. "Next time we go down, try not to do anything stupid, you hear? If anything happened to you"-

Lenny didn't pay much attention to the scolding which went on, as he looked back down at the deck, and then around at his companions who surrounded Ryan's stretcher and his still form, their features a mixture of blessed relief and wariness- they might have been relatively safe on the chopper, but until they were outside of Raccoon City and on solid ground then would they be home free.

And what of his own family? They had seemingly vanished into thin air, and despite trying to remain optimistic regarding their fate, considering the state the rest of the town had been in it was hard for him to maintain that upbeat nature now. He buried his face in his hands, just wanting to fade away from everything.

"Lenny?"

He glanced up at the mention of his name, but it wasn't one of his companions- rather, it was the younger man in the flight helmet and vest who had nearly got himself bitten trying to help out. Looking closer, he saw the spectacles and dark green eyes behind them, and his memory finally clicked into gear.

"Cameron?" he asked in disbelief. "W-what the hell are you doing here?!"

Steven furrowed his brow in confusion. "You know him?" he asked, looking back and forth between Lenny and Cameron.

Cameron Robinson was a young man from the small, almost tiny town of Riverview, just outside of the Virginian capital of Richmond. He also happened to be a good friend of a couple of the beat cops in the department, Ben Campbell and Dean Travers- who Lenny had last seen at the barricade on Raccoon Street.

_Where Jeff and the others died..._

"Yeah, he's a friend of a couple of my colleagues," Lenny explained, distracted. He didn't have much of a chance to expand when Cameron spoke up again.

"It's a long story why I'm here," he began, "but basically me and Travis came here to visit again, but then we heard that something had happened in Racoon City...but I didn't think it would be this bad!"

_You and me both, _thought Lenny sardonically. "You came here to find Dean and Ben?" he asked instead, sounding incredibly wary.

"Yes, we did," sighed Cameron, sounding just as weary about the entire thing. "Do you know where they are?"

Lenny just stared back blankly, before he turned to look out through the open cargo door as the chopper began to swing away towards another part of the burning city. "I saw them down at the barricade on Raccoon Street two days ago," he answered honestly. "Those things just rolled over us like we were nothing..." His voice trailed off as his mind returned to that fateful event.

The frantic screams of his colleagues. The hollow moans of the hordes attacking them. The slick sounds of flesh being ripped from the bone. Jeff's death rattle as he was pulled apart by grasping, bloodied hands-

"And Dean and Ben?"

Lenny was tempted to smack the kid in the mouth then and there for asking that question. He had no idea, no idea at all of what crap that the officer had been through since this shit had hit this once peaceful little town. Frankly, Lenny wished that he could just put a bullet in his head, for his staggering ignorance and his almost single-minded focus on his friends.

_What about me, huh? Aren't you going to ask what I've been through? What kind of shit's been going through my mind? The fact my wife and child could be dead by now and all you care about are your goddamn friends?!_

"I don't know!" he shouted instead, frustrated. Then he took a couple of breaths before he spoke again, aware of how the others were looking at him. "We fell back to the R.P.D, but I got separated from everyone else...been holed up waiting to be saved since." He looked around at the other civilian survivors as he spoke.

"Jesus," muttered Cameron, looking a little shocked to say the least. "So most of the R.P.D was killed?"

_Want me to spell it out for you? _Thought Lenny bitterly. "Looks like it- hell, I might be the only one left alive." Cameron just stared at him for a while, and then turned his head away, lost in his own thoughts.

Lenny wished that he had the rest of his life to _his _thoughts. Something told him that even that long wouldn't be enough to comprehend what had happened in Raccoon City. Looking around at his companions, it looked as though they felt the same.

* * *

Zac made another lap of the hospital rooftop- after all, he had little else to do. Each time he was treated to the same sights- the imposing structure of St Michael's Clock Tower, the fountains and gardens within the nearby Park, the relatively untouched City Hall building, and other city landmarks- alongside dozens of smoke pillars that continued to belch up into the sky from the infernos creating them.

And of course, the hundreds of wasted beings that staggered through the streets, the citizens of Raccoon City turned into monsters.

"And I could easily be one of them," he sighed, dropping down onto his ass on the helipad itself, nearly sprawling himself across of the huge painted 'H'. But there could still be time for that possibility, after what seemed like hours just sitting up here with nothing to do. If he went back down in that lift then he would be vulnerable to the zombies loitering in the corridors, and there were no other rooftops close enough for him to leap onto- all he could see was a prime opportunity to break every major bone if he flubbed a jump.

He might as well have accepted it then and there- there was no chance of him getting out of the city alive. He may as well bite the bullet and accept it- he did have enough left to deliver his own death to himself. He could have jumped instead- but that would have been a very painful way to go.

He screwed his eyes shut as tears started to flow. This was it then- he always assumed that he would die peacefully in his own home, surrounded by the family and friends that he loved. Instead it was going to be a lonely death, cold and afraid- surrounded by monsters. He wondered how his parents and his brother would manage without him, whether the grief would consume them-

He stopped and sat up when he heard a curious thumping noise. It was constant and steadily rising in volume as it came closer and closer to his position. He scrambled onto his feet and looked around-

-just as a military transport chopper crested over the rooftops of the buildings a couple of blocks away, moving in his general direction. He couldn't make out the regimental badge painted on the side, but it had to belong to the local garrison forces .

He leapt to his feet as it drew closer, its downdraft starting to push at his torso more and more. "Hey!" he screamed, waving his arms frantically above his head, practically jumping up and down on the spot. _"Hey! Down here!" _But then he realised that the amount of noise the rotors were making would likely wouldn't be heard by the people on board, and he didn't have access to any flares of anything else he could use to mark his position.

Then the chopper started to slow down and wheel about. And then he saw the person in a flight jacket and helmet leaning out of the side cargo door, a megaphone in hand to ensure that he would be heard.

"We're coming down for you!" his voice bellowed. "Get ready to climb on!"

Zac didn't need to be told twice. He backed away from the pad, right up to the elevator again, as the huge vehicle started to descend, its downdraft ruffling his clothes and his hair, blowing some grit into his eye, making him stop to rub it clear. After several painfully long seconds it had finally touched down, and the man in the helmet was reaching out for him.

"Come on! Get on!" he yelled. Zac ran to him as though his legs were walking on thin air, bounding up the short flight of steps onto the helipad and allowing himself to be roughly dragged up onto the cold metal deck of the chopper. As soon as he was on board, it started to lift up into the air- away from the madness of Raccoon City. Understandably, Zac allowed his emotions to get the better of him then and there.

"Oh, Thank God for you all!" he half-wailed, as he slumped into a vacant seat and strapped himself in as tightly as he could manage. He leaned his head back and sighed deeply, taking a few breaths before he opened his eyes and realised that there were five pairs of eyes looking back at him, including one set that he recognised all-too well.

"Oh man..."

"Zac?" asked a disbelieving Amy Jefferson, sat beside another familiar figure laid out on a makeshift stretcher. "Oh my God, Zac!" she then exclaimed, jumping to her feet, covering the distance to him in a couple of bounds, and throwing her arms around his neck. He reeled back initially, completely knocked sideways to see a familiar face. But eventually he returned the gesture, chuckling to himself.

"Amy?" he asked, immense relief washing over him. "Oh man, am I glad to see your beautiful face again!" he added. She smiled and pulled back, though it was clear that she'd been crying recently.

"But Zac, where the hell have you been?" she asked, almost as though she were annoyed at him skipping out on a social gathering she had arranged- a long time ago it seemed all too familiar. "We all thought you were dead!"

_That's nice to know, _he thought, smiling to himself before shaking his head. "Oh no, not me- I was in my way for a lecture when this shit all started. Ran for my life instead and ended up at the Clock Tower instead with some other people"-

He conveniently skipped over watching Emma being killed by her zombified father, and the other horrible shit he had seen since then. A lifetime ago, as far as he was concerned.

"-but then those monsters broke in and I just ran...left them all behind to die..."

"You didn't have a choice," reassured one of the other passengers- a middle-aged man in a dress suit who spoke with a British accent. "I'm sure."

"Did I?" Zac replied, not sounding terribly convinced. When he saw how they looked at him, he continued his little tale. "Anyways, I ended up in the hospital, and after that I wished I went elsewhere...there's some fucked up shit in there, believe me..." his voice trailed off until the silence became almost uncomfortable.

"...but what happened to you guys?" Amy screwed her face up at the question- clearly they had some unpleasant memories of their own while surviving. She told him how they had managed to escape the campus when the zombies attacked, thanks to Ryan's help.

"- he saved us and he got us out...he saved us, Zac- all by himself. And now..." She glanced down at the person laid out, who was moaning softly in his comatose state, bandages wrapped around his skull. Zac's eyes went wide in horror when he realised that he hadn't figured out who it was until now.

"Oh shit, Ryan dude!" he cried, unbuckling his straps and dropping down beside his friend to check on him. "What the hell happened?" he then inquired, not even looking up.

"We got attacked by some dog monsters," the British man explained, chewing on his cheek, "and he fought them off, but got himself knocked out as a result. He was lucky his throat wasn't ripped out." Zac looked down at his friend as he started to toss and turn lightly, moaning some more, but otherwise he seemed comfortable enough- not in any great pain at least.

"And who are you?" he asked, looking around at the British man and the other civilians in the chopper, a man in the uniform of the R.P.D- who until now had been looking out of the cargo doors at the burning city below- and another man who looked uncomfortable in flight vest and helmet, some spectacles balanced on the bridge of his nose, and another female- one with dark hair and wearing a white dress shirt.

The other people went through their brief stories- the British man (Steven) had been in town for a business meeting when everything went to hell, and had ended up running into the others during his escape, while the police officer – Lenny Bristol- had been stuck looking for his lost family in the chaos, and had wound up helping the others out instead. The girl- Kelly- had tagged along with the others in order to survive the madness in a group, and had seen her own share of (unspoken) horrors as well. The horror was the one thing that linked them all...well, nearly all of them.

"It's uh, a long story why I'm here," claimed the man with the spectacles, looking down ashamedly. "But I'm here to find my friends if I can. Me and my other friend Travis came here from Virginia."

_Long way to come, _thought Zac dryly. "I see," he said instead, nodding his head slowly. It seemed so out of place considering the circumstances. "What are your friend's names?" he then asked, even though it seemed impossible that he would never have met them before in such a large city.

"Well uh, Ben and Dean," he replied, sounding sheepish, and even Zac wondered if he was truly all there for not having mentioned their surnames at all, until he continued. "They're both with the R.P.D."

That last snippet got Zac's mind working in overdrive. He had a sudden mental image of the man who had walked into the chapel of the clock tower, armed to the nines and splattered with blood and gore. The same man who had put himself in danger to save them all from that insane mercenary who tried to feed them all to the zombies in order to save himself.

"Dean, you said?" he asked. "Dean Travers? Brown hair, green eyes"-

"You've been with him?!" the other man exclaimed loudly as he sat bolt upright, giving Zac and the others one hell of a shock into the bargain. "Where is he?"

"Um," Zac began, realising that he couldn't give a definite answer to that question, "he turned up at the clock tower a couple days ago, was going to help us get of there, he said. But then something happened and we got separated"-

"Where the hell is he?!" demanded the other man, practically jumping into Zac's face. "Is he still alive?"

"Hey, give him some room!" cried Amy, shoving the man away from Zac, but otherwise he didn't back down enough for her liking.

"I don't know!" Zac shouted, his voice nearly a wail. "but the last time I saw him, he was definitely alive!" he added quickly, though that wouldn't do much considering the situation in the city.

"You sure?" asked his inquisitor, calming down a little.

"Positive," Zac insisted, before looking away. "He was a big help. He saved us from that bastard..." He didn't expand on those events, but he still had a rough image of that bastard Campbell in the Clock Tower grounds, trying to feed them all to the zombies.

"Who?" asked the young man, face screwed up.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," said one of the flight crew- the same man who had pulled Zac on board- as he loomed into view, "but you're not hurt, are you sir?"

"N-no," Zac stammered, shaking his head.

"One of those things didn't bite you, did they?"

"Oh hell no!" Zac cried, a little too loudly. The man nodded.

"No problem, we just needed to be sure," he assured, raising his hands. "Excuse me for a minute, will you?" he then said, moving over to speak to the pilot. As he went, Zac mulled over the man's concern.

_If I was bitten, then what? Would you just throw me out the side?_

He suddenly realised that Amy had scooted around to sit in front of him, legs crossed, before reaching out to hold his hand and give it a gentle squeeze. "I'm so glad that you made it Zac. So many people died on campus. Just...so, so many," she whispered, her eyes starting to water. She looked away, but kept a grip of his hand.

"Michelle too?" he asked, knowing that she and Amy were best friends. She just nodded slowly. "I'm sorry Amy. I really am."

"Don't be," she responded, wiping a filthy finger across her face to clear the tears away. "I heard that my dad's at the refugee centre, so that's one blessing we can count. Hey, maybe we could find someone else we know? Mike was saying"-

"Mike?"

"Him," she stated, nudging her head towards the same guy currently speaking with the pilot. "He was saying that they've got nearly a thousand people out of the city so far- so there's a chance someone else we know made it out."

"Emma didn't," Zac announced suddenly.

"What?" she asked.

"I was there when this all started- at her dad's place," he explained, eyes lowered. "Her dad turned into one of those things...ripped her throat out, just like she was a piece of meat. What a fucking mess..." His voice trailed off, and her grip tightened. All of them had lost so much since this had started.

"OK people, we're heading back now," Mike announced, turning to address them all. "Sit tight and we'll get you all to safety."

_Safety, _Zac thought to himself. _How nice..._

His stomach lurched as the chopper wheeled about to leave the burning city behind.

* * *

An eighteen-wheeler truck- painted in bright red and electric blue- made its way along one of the county highways which cut its way through the forests and mountains of Raccoon County, bypassing the city itself. Though its driver- a man in his mid-twenties called Troy Mason- had originally intended to cut through Raccoon City itself on his way to San Francisco, he'd found the military roadblocks on the freeway and had been forced to take a route that would have added at least another day onto his travel.

Something bad had happened in the city, that much was certain. The radio was full of news broadcasts about the 'radiation leak' in the city, and judging by the numerous plumes of thick black smoke which rose into the sky from above the city, something bad had happened. It still didn't help Troy get to San Fran any quicker though. Looked as though he could kiss that contract goodbye...

He was starting to make his way back down the mountain when he saw a figure standing at the side of the road, one arm outstretched with his thumb raised. As he hadn't had a hitchhiker in a long time, and would appreciate a little company, Troy started to slow his huge vehicle down as he approached. When he got closer, he saw that the hitchhiker looked the worse for wear. He was dressed in what looked like an orange jumpsuit of some sort, but it was hard to see as he was doused from head to toe in mud- almost as though he had been caught in a liquid landslide and had been lucky to get out in one piece.

The rig stopped within ten yards of the man, though he remained locked in his pose with outstretched arm as though he were a statue. Then he suddenly stumbled like a drunk, and began to move towards the passenger's side door. He looked exhausted as well, his eyes baggy and drawn and his skin pale. Troy raised an eyebrow as the man pulled himself up and into the rig's cab without any assistance from the drive at all.

"Shit, you okay dude?" Troy asked as the man slammed the door shut and began to pull on his seatbelt.

"Just peachy," the man deadpanned, staring straight ahead. Troy didn't press him any further, and instead he just popped off the parking brake and pulled away from the side of the road instead.

"So...where you heading?" he asked instead, as they reached the bottom of the mountain and began to head out on the freeway once more.

"Anywhere but here," grumbled former Raccoon Penitentiary inmate Adams.

**A/N: So...here we are again. Once again, sorry for the long wait- I always seem to have a hard time writing for this fic, probably because I'm making an effort to keep the continuity as accurate as possible alongside events from The Fall of Raccoon. As such, I seriously doubt this to be finished before 2013. At the very least, it'll probably be finished in the early months of next year, depending on what happens.**

**Also, I have a new chapter for Dead Memories to upload, but another user on this site is doing a betaread of it first for reasons that I'll explain at the time. As for the time being, R & R as normal please. I appreciate any feedback. **


	16. Wrapping Up

Chapter 16: Wrapping Up

**September 28****th****, 1802 hours**

Anna Bristol watched her son sleeping so peacefully, almost as though they hadn't seen dead people walking around not too long ago. It was a lucky break that those soldiers had appeared when they did, though she was still dismayed that they weren't mounting a larger operation to find any more survivors inside the city. But considering how bad things had gotten, perhaps that wasn't such a surprise.

She stroked Lewis' hair softly, resting her hand to feel his gentle breathing in and out for a while, like she would do some nights after taking him to bed. Even after those five years since his birth, she still felt incredibly blessed by this little life she and Lenny had created together. She'd always dreamed of having children one day, ever since she had entered her twenties. She'd once joked casually with Lenny about them having five or six children at one time- but after they'd seen how much of a handful that Lewis had been as a baby, they'd quickly nixed that idea.

"Excuse me? Ma'am?"

She looked up to see the army corporal standing outside of the tent flaps, the same one who had helped her out of the city alongside the rest of his team. Except now he was shorn of his body armor, his weapon and the rest of his kit. Wearing just his camouflaged pants, jacket and boots, he looked much more approachable. He had light brown hair and the beginning of a goatee beard on his chin.

"Please, you can call me Anna," she smiled, "it makes me sound like some old school headmistress when people call me 'ma'am'."

"Sure, sorry," he said, coming inside and easing himself into one of the folding chairs opposite where she was sat. "I just came to check on you both again, see how you're settling."

"We're fine," she responded, turning back to Lewis, "he's managed to get to sleep, finally. It would do him some good, considering everything that's happened."

"He seems to have taken it pretty well, considering," he commented.

"That's my son for you," Anna nodded, "not much bothers him at his age- like water off of a duck's back. But I still worry what damage it's all done…I mean, will he remember it all five years down the line? Will he have nightmares? What about his social development? Everything else? Is all that shot through now because of this…this…I don't even know what to call it!"

The corporal had sat by during her little rant without a word, and at the end of it he just nodded slowly. "Yeah…I can understand you feeling that way, but all you can do is to ensure that he grows up as well-adjusted as possible. You do your job right as a mother, and he'll be fine."

"You must have children of your own," she commented, looking at him directly.

"Yeah, twin girls," he nodded with a wide grin. "Just over six months old now- probably the greatest treasures I've ever had in my life." Then he reached into his pocket and took out a worn leather wallet, showing her a small photo of a pair of sleeping baby girls inside. "Luckily, the take after their mother- if they grew up and realize they look like their dad- they're gonna hate me." Anna chuckled quietly.

"It must be hard for you to leave them," she commented. He nodded slowly.

"Yeah, of course," he answered, "but it's all part of the job. And this is better than being deployed overseas- if that had happened I'm sure my wife would have murdered me," he then added, with a chuckle at the end.

"I'm sorry, Corporal Elghan"-

"Please, call me Tom," the corporal said a she cut her off mid-sentence. "I've only been out here a few days and I'm already sick of being called Corporal-this, Corporal-that- being called Tom would be a nice change."

"Very well, Tom," Anna replied, glancing over as Lewis started to toss and turn in his sleep. "He's…asking where his daddy is, nearly all the time."

"I'm sure," Tom responded. "I've talked to the Major again. We've got a lot of activity going on at our other sights. Command's cancelling all operations into the city to look for survivors cause we're stretched too thin as it is. We're not even meant to have any civilians kept here…"

"That's a comforting thought…"

"But considering you have a child with you, Major Foster was willing to make an exception," Tom explained. "As soon as we can arrange it, we'll have a chopper take you both to the refugee center on the eastern city limits- Lieutenant Fletcher has command there. He's a good man; he'll make sure you're both looked after."

"But what about my husband?" asked Anna, her anxiety starting to become more and more apparent. "What about him? Have they found him yet? What if he's"-

"Don't think like that," Tom said firmly, cutting her thought process off. "The second you start to assume the worst, it'll consume you fully- and that's the last thing you want. You need to stay strong for your son- no matter what happens, even if it's through the worst news possible."

She looked at the corporal for the longest time after that, even as her mind was racing at a hundred miles per hour, and his sincere expression was enough to convince her that he was talking perfect sense. Driving herself wild with thoughts over Lenny's safety would only tire herself out- or worse.

"You're right," she said, her voice hoarse. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," said Tom, standing up. "I need to go now, but if there's anything else, just give me a shout."

"Thank you," she nodded with another smile, though this one looked as though it had barely any conviction behind it. As he exited, she turned back towards her sleeping son.

"Hey man," said a voice as Elghan walked across the road. He turned to see Frank Abraham approaching from another direction, a half-smile on his face. The two of them paused to shake each other's hands. "So, what's up?"

"She's exhausted, as you might expect," Elghan replied, shaking his head, "and sick with worry that her husband's dead. I told her to keep her head up, but come on- we all saw how bad it was in the city- what are the chances that he's still alive?"

"Yeah," shrugged Abraham, "but we don't tell them that, ever."

"Naturally," responded the Corporal. "There been any changes to the op?"

"No, nothing that's come down my end of the chain," said Abraham, "we just carry on as instructed," he added.

"So be it," sighed Elghan, as both of them started to walk back towards where their cots were, falling into step beside one another. And so their duty continued.

* * *

As the chopper began to slow down and wheel about, Zac peered out of the side hatch at the little checkpoint the army had set up, illuminated by a surrounding ring of portable floodlights. Situated in and around a small travel motel, he saw the armed men standing behind the barricades on the road itself, as well as a multitude of tents and large shipping containers, and a fleet of other vehicles with which to serve the civilian refugees.

"Hold on, everybody," said Mike suddenly as the chopper lurched around and they began to lower towards a patch of untouched ground. A number of soldiers stood by, ready to help once they had touched down. After a few more seconds, the chopper shook as they reached terra firma.

After a few more seconds, a green light up near the ceiling came on. "Alright, everyone off!" Mike shouted as he unbuckled himself and leapt out onto solid ground, "and watch your step as you go!" As if to compound that statement, they could all see the soldiers outside, struggling to avoid being blown back by the chopper's powerful downdraft.

One by one, they all dismounted from the chopper- the girls were first off, quickly followed by Lenny, Steven and finally Zac in quick succession. The civilian in the flight helmet was the last one out of the chopper, going in a completely separate direction as soldiers in uniform moved forwards to help Ryan out of the chopper, while one who stood back was screaming something, but Zac couldn't hear a word he was saying.

Instead they found themselves being bustled along towards a line of tents where plenty more civilian refugees stood or sat around as army medics attended to them, but several of them perked up as the new arrivals approached. "Here, get him set down," one of the medics ordered as he saw them bringing Ryan up. Like the Red Sea parting, a few of the cots were pulled apart by the other medics, and Ryan was set down on a lone, empty cot, Amy and the others crowding around him.

"Okay, someone talk to me," said the same medic as he took out his stethoscope and put it against Ryan's chest to check his heartbeat. He was young- barely older than Ryan it looked- with black hair that was in dire need of a good wash, and a few traces of facial hair, his expression bordering somewhere between apathy and exhaustion.

"He…took a hit to the head," Amy said, moving in closer to be heard.

"How long ago?"

"I…I don't know exactly, hours at least," she stammered.

"Hmm," was all he said in reply as he hung his stethoscope across his neck and took out a small penlight instead, shining it into each of Ryan's eyes a she peeked underneath the eyelids. "And how long has he been out?"

"Since then," she responded. "We wrapped his wound the best we could"-

"Just as well," he interrupted, talking over her, "otherwise it could have been infected and he might be dead now." As he stepped back, one of the orderlies stepped up and started to unbind the old bandages on Ryan's head.

"Will he…?"

"Just worry about yourself," the medic answered as the orderly began to re-dress Ryan's head in an expert manner- better than any of they had done in the city. "He's stable from what I can tell, but we'll give him some antibiotics just in case. You should all get yourselves checked out."

"But"-

"Listen to him, Amy," Zac reasoned, speaking up. "He's in good hands now- we all are." She looked at him for a while, but after a pause she seemed to understand and stepped back to let the army personnel do their work.

"Okay," she nodded. Then she looked around to see Steven, Lenny and Kelly being seen to by the other doctors and orderlies, who helped them to sit down on their own cots, checking them for any injuries, while others fetched them some fresh clothes. For all of that though, the simple look of blessed relief seemed to be the greatest joy they could all feel at that moment.

Amy eased herself onto the cot directly beside Ryan's, watching as the orderlies got to work making him as comfortable as they possibly could. Zac perched on the cot beside her, watching intently even as another orderly checked him over to see if he was still in one piece. Lenny, Kelly and Steven all took their own places on spare cots a few feet away, close enough to keep an eye on the others, but also close enough to see what was going on elsewhere in the camp.

Lenny personally thought if he looked close enough, he'd see his wife and son amongst the tired masses- but try as he might, he didn't have any luck, at least initially. He was vaguely aware of another chopper that was coming in to land, close to where they had done.

Tobias Greene saw the chopper coming in too, realizing that it must have been Colonel Adams- just as Lindeman had promised. With any luck, the Lieutenant would back down on his peering into Umbrella's activities, but considering how fervently he had been pursuing that investigation, that didn't seem likely. He just wished the old man wouldn't ask any more of him.

* * *

Rudolph Baxter- President of the United States- sat with his chin resting against one cupped hand, his other hand resting on his knee, tapping his fingers in a steady rhythm. Despite his somewhat blasé body language, he knew full well the implications of the future meeting with the Senate- the fate of Raccoon City.

"Mister President?"

He turned in his chair to see his Vice President, Michael Barber, watching him intently. His suit jacket was gone, the top button of his shirt undone and his tie loosened, sweat patches partially visible under his armpits. It was a look mirrored by the President himself and at least half a dozen of the congressmen there in the room with them, indicative of how long some of them had been confined here while they tried to sort this cluster fuck out. Several empty cups of coffee littered the table, as did stacks of files and other paperwork.

This wasn't exactly a formal meeting of Senate, more of an informal gathering of the President and his most trusted senators and other powerful members of government while they tried and worked out a way to sort this mess out. They would moving to the Capitol Building tomorrow to meet with the remaining members of the Senate and to take an official vote on the entire thing.

"Yes?" sighed Baxter, rubbing his forehead.

"Did you hear me, sir?" asked Barber, looking down at his sheets. "I said the Raccoon County Garrison are ceasing all extraction efforts into the city as of midnight tonight, as we all proposed."

"Very well," nodded Baxter, sitting up in his seat and shuffling his papers.

"Do we have any numbers on how many have been saved from the city?" was Baxter's next question.

"Uh…" Barber glanced down at his sheets again. "…as of midday today, they have 1,137 civilians rescued from Raccoon City. They got the main bulk out within the first day, and more have been trickling in ever since."

"Better than nothing," sighed Baxter, even though those 1,137 people were only a tiny portion of the city's original 100,000 strong population- but it was still better than consigning those people to what they were currently discussing.

"So Mister President…what about the contingency plan?" asked a voice from the lower half of the table. "You do know that we can't waste anymore time than we already have. We can't risk letting the contagion that's afflicted Raccoon City from spreading any further." It belonged to Ron Davis, senator and representative for the Colorado state area, and a rotund character with the sort of face only a mother could love.

"Contagion…" Baxter muttered to himself. "That's a funny way of putting the term 'biological weapon'- after all, that is what we're dealing with, right?" the President continued, leaning forwards.

"Well, I…" stumbled Davis, but another voice answered for him.

"Does it really matter what it is?" asked Andrew Drummond, the representative for Kansas, the neighboring state to Colorado- and the closest to be affected if the fall-out from the Raccoon City incident spread. "The fact is, we've got a hell of a crisis on our hands- on our home soil- and if we don't deal with this right, then frankly Mister President your re-election campaign will already be suffering."

Baxter bit his lower lip hard as Drummond spoke. None of them had dared to mention the elephant in the room, but it was no secret that most of the congressmen in this room were major shareholders with Umbrella Incorporate, the company which had some of its major US operations based in Raccoon City to begin with. Like it was no secret that the same company had bankrolled Baxter's original election campaign, and had donated millions each year towards aiding his numerous proposals. And now that same company were supposedly to blame for this current turn of unfortunate events.

"Look, we can sit here and argue about this until the cows come home," interrupted Arthur Graham, congressman and representative for Maine, one of the few men in that room who wasn't an Umbrella stockholder, and an old university friend of Baxter's- well known as a man of genuine integrity, someone who could be trusted implicitly. He'd make a good President someday…

"-but whatever it is, we still need to come to a decision. The city has been quarantined effectively by the Raccoon County Garrison and they've had no issues"-

"-except for that incident at the Arklay Flats, right?" asked Drummond sarcastically. "At least a dozen civilians dead? We already have the officer who was commanding the troops stationed there at the time on forced leave pending for court martial, and they can't take any more refugees as it stands- they're pushed to breaking point, and if that chaos inside the city were to spread any further outwards…"

"Then things could get a lot worse, I know, gentlemen," sighed Baxter, rubbing his forehead, "frankly, we're going round and round in circles here."

"With all due respect Mister President, it's because you're taking us round in circles," Davis retorted.

"Remember who you're talking too," snapped Barber sharply.

"Well excuse me if I'm not fully inclined to go along with the current proposal," Baxter added. "The main reason we have nuclear weapons is so we can protect ourselves from our enemies. But to use them on our own soil? On our own _people?_ Do I even need to spell it out for you all? We do this, then the rest of Congress- and the people themselves- will hate us. Hell, _my _career will likely be over."

"But we have no other option!" retorted the roly-poly Davis, stabbing his finger into the table. "This contagion makes Ebola look like a fucking head cold- we can't run the risk of it getting outside of the quarantine zone!"

"And what about the fall-out?" asked Graham, not missing a beat. "What about Umbrella?"

"What about them?" asked Congressman Lionel Hoffman, yet another major Umbrella share holder.

"Where would you like me to start?" asked Graham, turning towards him. "I can name enough accidents there've been with Umbrella's name written all over it, all those rumors surrounding what happened to James Marcus"-

"-none of which has any bearing on Raccoon City as it stands," Davis countered.

"This has Umbrella written all over it," continued the Maine representative. "How much longer are they going to get away with things like this before we do something about it? Or is it because they're paying you too much for your allegiance, Ron?"

Davis looked genuinely offended by that accusation. "Now _hey_"-

"Arthur, please"- began Baxter with a sigh.

"No Rudolph, someone has to say it," Arthur retorted sharply, as many of the other Congressmen looked away in either shame or embarrassment. "It's no damn secret that most of the people in this room are only where they are today because of Umbrella backing their elections- hell, this is a damn waste of time anyway, because they've probably got most of the senate and congress willing to vote on this. I may as well spoil my vote now."

An uncomfortable silence descended in the room, as most of them there knew he was speaking the truth to a certain extent- they wouldn't have made it this far without Umbrella funds propping up their election campaigns. A couple of the congressmen cleared their throats and mumbled excuses before walking from the room for a 'cigarette break'.

"Arthur, please," groaned Baxter again, "just don't. We don't need to upset anyone here. Tensions are high enough as it is, and we still have an outbreak of an unknown contagion on home soil to deal with. It won't go away by itself- this is the only course of action we can take."

Arthur looked at his old friend in disbelief, then sighed and shook his head, standing up. He picked up his jacket from where it was hanging on the back of his seat and pulled it on.

"Where are you going?" asked Barber, standing up himself. "This meeting isn't adjourned yet."

"I don't care," he replied, picking up his papers as well. "It doesn't matter what I say, Umbrella have already brought half of congress- it'll be a one-sided vote either way. I abstain, so let the record reflect that.."

"Arthur"-

"_Don't! _Just…don't try and talk me round this time. You're not the man I used to know, Rudolph," sighed Graham, turning and walking from the room without another word. When he was gone, Barber rose from his seat partially.

"Let him go," sighed Baxter, looking down at his papers, "I know Arthur, trying to convince him to come back won't work. When he makes a decision, he sticks by it, no matter what." He swept away a few sheets, exposing one particular letter that had come to him very recently- hours ago, in fact.

It was a message from Oswell Spencer, Umbrella Inc's CEO, currently in his own talks with the Board of Directors in New York city. As Arthur had correctly identified, no doubt they had made their own choice regarding Raccoon City's fate, and whatever they decided next would be a moot point. And the curtly-written note (and veiled threat) had only served to drive that bitter point home even further.

_President Baxter,_

_I trust you to do the right thing._

_Yours faithfully,_

_O.S_

He pushed it away from him and sighed once again, before he realized the other Congressmen were watching him cautiously, awaiting his next move. Eventually, he straightened up and cleared his throat.

"Fine. Then let's not waste anymore time. All those in favor of the Baccilus Terminus operation?"

In the end, most of those assembled voted in favor of backing the plan. Only two people voted against it- Baxter was sure that it would have been three if Arthur had stayed behind, but either way they would lose out.

"Very well," sighed the President, looking over at Barber, "send the orders out for the garrison forces to pull the cordon back. We can't risk losing anything in that blast." Barber just nodded and walked from the room to relay those orders. Once he was gone, Baxter sighed once more and slumped in his chair.

"God forgive me," he whispered.

* * *

After the initial chaos of their arrival, the group of survivors that Lenny had lead to safety had settled at the camp by now- or as close to settled as you could get when you had been forcibly removed from your own home by the walking dead and nearly eaten alive on numerous occasions. After the initial rush to get a fresh cot, one of the army personnel had taken a note of their name and other personal information, before heading off to see if they could be linked up with anyone else they had managed to save from the city.

The police officer sat on his cot, watching the others with tired eyes. Amy was sat beside Ryan, legs crossed, one hand clutching his, while Kelly and Steven were sat opposite one another, talking between one another quietly. Zac joined in with them as a third member, speaking up when necessary. After a while, he glanced up across at Lenny suddenly.

"You okay?" he asked with genuine concern.

"Yeah, I'm fine- considering," Lenny replied, rubbing his face. "They…I think they said they were trying to see if my family turned up at any of the other camps…"

"Well that's good!" said Zac with a raised voice. "…isn't it?"

"Yeah…but you all saw how bad it is in the city," Lenny countered, "I mean…fuck, what are the chances?" Zac realized that he couldn't really empathize with how the R.P.D officer was feeling at the time, so he quietly (and wisely) decided to back off instead, leaving him to stare off into the distance with his own thoughts for company.

"So you had a chance to talk to your wife, then?" asked Kelly, smoothing down the front of the white t-shirt the soldiers had scrounged up for her to replace her gore-soaked work clothes. It was a couple sizes too big, but otherwise comfortable enough, alongside the gray jogging pants they had found.

"Yeah…yeah, I spoke to her for a few minutes," Steven answered. He was dressed in a similar manner to Kelly- in fact, pretty much every refugee there was dressed almost the exact same way, making it hard to tell them apart, save for their exhausted faces. "They're all relieved, of course- they'd seen the news on the television, and they knew where I'd gone, so naturally they were beside themselves."

"Well it's nice you got to talk to them at least," Kelly smiled. "Did they say when they're going to let us go home?" Steven shook his head.

"Not yet," he sighed, "they didn't say anything at all, even when I pressed it- so who knows what'll happen in the near future? They've got enough manpower here, that's for sure."

As he finished that statement, there was some more commotion as a figure started to push his way through the throng of refugees, looking back and forth as he called out frantically. "Amy! Amy, where are you?!"

Amy perked up at the sound of her name being called, and her eyes went wide in shock when she saw the balding man with gray hair picking his way in their direction, nearly knocking some people over and attracting a few annoyed stares, but he kept on moving.

"Who's that?" asked Kelly, but Amy and Zac knew full well who it was, even as the former got to her feet suddenly.

"_Dad!"_

Albert Jefferson's head whipped around in the direction of the voice, and his eyes went wide when he saw his daughter's face for the first time in days. "Amy!" he called out, his tone wavering as he started to push forwards, moving faster and faster as father and daughter drew closer and closer, even as he shoved other people aside in his haste. Soon enough, he had broken free of the throng and had embraced his daughter tightly.

"Thank God," he said, his voice wavering even more, "thank God…I thought I'd lost you…"

"I thought I'd lost _you,_" Amy responded, hugging him around the waist as tightly as her slight frame could manage. "Dad…oh dad, I'm so…so…" Her voice trailed off into a series of wracking sobs.

"It's okay honey, it's over now," he reassured her, one hand stroking her matted red hair.

"W-where's mom?" she asked suddenly, breaking away from his embrace. "Is she her…?" Her voice trailed off when his eyes began to water, and he looked away. "No…" she whispered, her voice breaking, as they embraced once again, much more tightly this time.

"I'm sorry baby, I'm just…I'm sorry," Albert stammered. "I couldn't do anything…" Zac looked away and screwed his eyes shut.

_Another family devastated…Christ._

* * *

Tobias Greene had been lurking in the shadows- like some children's bogeyman- watching Cameron and Travis carefully for what seemed like an age, until one of them (he couldn't tell which in the limited light) finally walked off towards the tents where the refugees were being kept, leaving the other in the red pick-up truck, alone.

This was his moment, his chance to…strike, he supposed. Colonel Adams' attempt to dissuade Fletcher from pursing Umbrella had fallen on deaf ears, and as such Lindeman had made it clear to Greene what would happen next- they had to die, simple as that. Greene was a desperate man before, and all Daniel Lindeman had done was prey on that, turning and twisting it to his advantage. If he didn't go ahead with this drastic course of action, then he would be a dead man one way or another. Loan sharks or corrupt corporation…what a choice.

_This has to happen, you don't have a choice._

But did he?

He let out a suppressed groan of despair, his face buried within his left hand. In the other he held the revolver which had been inside the package he had received days prior. The grip was wrapped in a foam-like substance which (theoretically) would stop his fingerprints getting onto it, making it harder to trace back to him, but how he would manage shooting them in the first place in the middle of a civilian refugee centre was another matter.

But he had to move right now- he wouldn't get another chance to divide the two civilians up in a while, and the army's operation here wouldn't last forever either, denying him of his chance forever. When he was certain that it was clear and no-one else was watching, he exited his hiding spot and made his way towards the truck, the revolver hidden behind his back.

Soon enough he was standing just beside the truck, close enough to see the skinny one wedged into the passenger seat, trying to get into a more comfortable position to get some sleep for the night, blissfully unaware of the man standing just a few feet away from him, with a gun intended for him. Slowly and surely, Greene raised the revolver and aimed through the glass at him.

Suddenly, he stirred and looked up with bleary eyes. "Something up dude?" he groaned. "I'm trying to get some sleep here"-

The words faltered in his throat when he realized there was a gun pointing at him though, eyes wide much like a rabbit caught in the headlamps of a car at night. He froze on the spot, even as Greene slowly shook his head and spoke, his voice close to breaking point.

"I'm sorry, but I don't have a choice."

He meant every word. He never wanted this. He wished that some black hole would have opened and swallowed him up long before Daniel Lindeman and Umbrella got their claws into him, long before things had come to this- a suicidal course of action as far as he knew. There would be no coming back from this. His finger curled around the revolver's trigger.

He was so intently focused on the scene before him that he didn't realize there was someone else running up to him at full speed until it was too late. The figure slammed into him with all the force of a freight train, throwing off his aim just as he fired, putting out the truck's side window with an explosion of glass instead.

They landed roughly, Greene glancing up to see a silhouette towering over him, a fist raised back to strike. Greene quickly lashed out with his right hand, pistol-whipping him across the temple and knocking him off, giving Greene the chance to scramble up and make a run for it, back the way he had come.

_No, no, no no!_

This couldn't be happening. He was screwed one way or another- they knew he was after them now, and he had to get the hell away until things calmed down. He skirted around the parked trucks and the edge of the motel grounds, even as more soldiers ran by, their rifles clutched tightly to their chests. He kept on running, even as someone else saw him and called out.

"Hey! You there!" yelled Sergeant Dixon, running after Greene, even as the latter ran out onto the open field behind the motel and quickly started when he realized that he was running directly towards another half dozen of Dixon's men who were coming in his direction, many of them looking his way.

_Fuck!_

Greene skidded to a halt and tried to go back the way he had come- his eyes wide from pure shock and adrenaline- only to see Dixon and two more soldiers running up to box him in.

"_Freeze!" _screamed Dixon in his most powerful voice, raising his M4 to eye level. There was a rapid series of clicks as the others did the same, and Tobias Greene quickly found himself boxed in by a circle of assault rifles with nowhere to go.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck!_

He circled around in a lazy circle, glancing back and forth near-constantly. He couldn't tell whether Dixon and the others recognized him- their impassive expressions didn't help much either. But either way it was over- he had failed in his mission to cover up and he had failed in his duty to aid the displaced citizens of Raccoon City. But things would only get worse in the very near future.

"Tobias?"

He whirled around to see Fletcher appear from out of the ranks of soldiers, a surprised expression painted on his face. He took a quick look around the circle of pointed guns, and raised his arms. "What the hell are you doing?!"

"I'm sorry sir, but I didn't have a choice," Greene responded, his voice close to breaking. "If I didn't do anything, they'd have me killed!"

Fletcher's face screwed up into a quizzical expression. "Who would?" he asked. He held one hand out, indicating for the other soldiers to back down. They backed away a short distance, but kept their weapons pointed.

Greene felt the futility of his situation come flowing back to him, and he desperately clamped his hands to the sides of his head, dropping to his knees. "I c-can't say!" he wailed pathetically, "I had no choice! Believe me! You have to!" he continued, looking straight at the Lieutenant a she did, close to tears. His expression practically begged for someone to believe him.

"Just put the gun down, Tobias," Fletcher said cautiously, stepping forwards with open hands on display. "I'd hate for all these guys to have to shoot you," he continued, looking around at the ring of armed soldiers that surrounded the scene. The troops tensed up, but remained stood in place- they were ready to perforate Tobias on the spot if he gave them a reason to.

_Maybe that's what I need, _Greene thought darkly as he casually looked around at the circle of rifles that had him pinned in. He was already screwed, he knew that much- he'd been caught in the act with the gun in his hand, there was no getting away with that. He'd be up for court martial at the very least.

"I'm sorry sir, but it's a Catch-22 thing," Tobias responded, shaking his head slowly. "I didn't do it, he'd have me killed. And if I did so it, I figured I'd end up dead sometime in the future."

"Who Tobias?" asked Fletcher, taking another tentative step forwards, "who'd have you killed?"

"I couldn't run away!" Greene continued, oblivious to the soldier who was coming up behind him, obviously making a play to rush in and grab his weapon off of him. Meanwhile, the soldier standing closest to the Lieutenant raised his weapon in retaliation of Greene's rising anxiety, but he got it slapped away by the officer.

"You can't run away from a man like him! No chance! I didn't want to do this, but I didn't have a choice, sir!"

"What are you on about, Tobias?" asked Fletcher, taking another step forwards. Despite the rest of his men looking for a reason to pull the trigger, Fletcher didn't lose his cool. He extended one hand out as he advanced towards Greene a little more. "Come on, just give me the gun, and then we can talk about this."

_Talk? What good would talking do?_

"-I'll make sure nothing happens to you."

_No…no, you can't make that promise. Don't make a promise that you can't keep, Gordon. You've told me that plenty of times before._

Greene looked up at his CO for one more lingering look, and then back down at the revolver in his hand. After the life he had led, was there any chance of a better life for him? He deserved everything that was coming to him, after he had frittered away his money in every seedy gambling den he could think of, after betraying his friends, his colleagues and his country. Someone would put a bullet in his head sooner or later. Perhaps he should just save them all the trouble.

Part of him wanted Umbrella to suffer for what they had done. Maybe that's why he was yelling so much about his situation, how 'he' hadn't left him any choice, so that Fletcher could put the pieces together and find out the truth by himself. Some form of divine retribution, he figured. Just a shame that he wouldn't see it through to its end.

"I'm sorry sir, but there's no hope left for me," he said sadly, looking around at the familiar faces surrounding him. "It was a pleasure to know you all." And then he raised the revolver's barrel to the side of his head.

"_No!"_

He pulled the trigger, and then all was black.

Peace at last.

* * *

"What the hell was that?!" demanded Steven as his head whipped around, in the general direction of the gunshot they had all just heard. Amy and Kelly looked just about ready to jump out of their skins. Several of the other refugees there started to wail and cry as a response, no doubt reminded of all-too recent horrors.

"Stay here," ordered Lenny as he stood up, and then he started to walk away from the tent, down towards where he could see several of the armed soldiers running around the side of the motel, their rifles clutched close to their bodies. Though he trusted them to do their jobs, after everything that had happened in the city, he felt compelled to check the situation out. He'd just been speaking to Travis not too long ago, and now something else was going down.

"What could that be?" asked Amy as she looked around.

"Try not to worry about it too much," Steven reasoned, "they've got enough soldiers here to keep everything under control."

"If you say so," said Kelly, still sounding a little unsure about the general situation. They could hear some shouting now- too far away to make out the words- and a couple more soldiers went running past towards the disturbance. The medics still on duty were doing their best to calm the refugees who were starting to scream and shout, with little success.

"You can only imagine what they've seen," observed Steven with a shake of his head. "I mean…God, you all know what we saw, but what about them? Everyone has their own horror story to tell…"

"Don't remind me," sighed Zac, rubbing his face. "I swear, that damn thing in the hospital's going to haunt me for the rest of my life…" Amy gave him a quizzical look, but didn't get a chance to press him further on the subject.

_Bang!_

There was a second gunshot, making the group jump in shock, and elicited a few more screams from some of the other refugees that were sheltered beneath the tent. A few women were practically wailing and screaming as tears ran down their cheeks. Down the hill, even more soldiers disappeared around the side of the motel, closely followed by several of the news crews who had been there ever since they had first arrived from the city.

"Jesus," swore Steven, "maybe things are worse than we thought…" The others looked either away or at the ground, even as Lenny came back up towards them. "So did you see anything?" asked Steven.

"I couldn't see for sure," Lenny announced as he sat back down on his cot, "but it looks like one of the soldiers just shot himself, right in front of all the others."

"You serious?" asked Zac, genuinely shocked.

"From what I could see," Lenny shrugged. He let that sink in for a few moments before adding, "You know, I was kinda hoping that we could all relax for a change here," he continued, a remark which caused the others to look away, downtrodden or just lost in their own thoughts.

But that was quickly forgotten when there was a low cough and Ryan sat bolt upright on his cot with such suddenness that Zac and Kelly nearly jumped at least twenty feet into the air. In fact, Zac jumped so badly that he fell backwards off his cot and landed hard on his ass, leaving him peering over the top of his cot, while Amy looked plain flabbergasted. Lenny simply didn't have the energy to offer a similar reaction.

"Oh hey," Ryan groaned with a hoarse voice as he looked around, "what did I miss?" He sounded as though he'd just woken up from a quick nap.

"Jesus Christ Ryan, you scared the absolute shit out of me!" Zac chastised as he scrambled onto his feet and moved around beside his friend. "You've been out for a long damn time! You remember anything?" Ryan squinted up at the people around him, thinking to himself.

"Who's that?" Ryan asked, squinting up at Lenny and Steven.

"Ryan, you need to focus," reassured Amy softly. "Do you remember what happened?"

"I…I remember those damn dogs," he groaned, "and I was trying to fight them off. I fell…hit my head…and that was it. Out like a light."

"Well, that was hours ago dude," Zac responded, "you took a pretty nasty hit to the head, after all."

"Yeah, I know," Ryan groaned, as he eased himself into a near-upright position, swinging his legs over the side and stretching them out to ease his stiff joints.

"You did pretty well despite that though," Steven added, "fighting off those dogs by yourself."

"Yeah, that's right," Amy interjected, moving into Ryan's line of sight. "You were so brave Ryan…you saved me."

"It was nothing," he insisted, as one of the army medics approached to check on him. "I was just looking out for you, like I said I would."

"Well thank you," she whispered, putting an arm around his neck and leaning in to give him a peck on the cheek. "My hero."

Despite his best efforts after that, Ryan couldn't quite conceal his blushing cheeks as the medic started to shine a light into each of his eyes in turn, and starting to ask the obligatory questions regarding how he was feeling, though Amy remained pretty much glued to him throughout.

"Amy- I know you're happy I'm not dead and all," he groaned after a pause, "but could you let go please- I'm still a little sore."

"Oh!" she exclaimed, releasing her grip and stepping back. "Sorry, sorry…"

Lenny watched them for a while, and then turned back to be alone with his thoughts once more. Though that seemed like a dangerous thing after what they had all been through together, he just didn't feel like talking it out with these complete strangers. He looked down at the grassy ground again.

_Anna…Lewis- what's the point of going on without you two being there?_

He lowered his head into his hands and began to weep.

**A/N: And here we are again, quicker than the gap between the last two chapters. **

**As I've said before, we're rapidly coming up to the end of this story, and the ultimate end of my dealings with the Raccoon City Outbreak. I still have Dead Memories to keep myself occupied of course, though I am wishing to write more fics based on other universes beyond Resident Evil- perhaps Warhammer 40,000, and maybe even Silent Hill- I'd love to do a full-length Silent Hill fan fic if I could. We shall see what the future brings though.**

**As for this story, there should only be a couple of chapters left now. Thanks to all of you for sticking with it so long, and R & R as normal, please. **


	17. Pulling Out

Chapter 17: Pulling Out

**September 29****th**** 0621 hours**

"_Come on, move!"_

The raised voice was followed by someone nudging his foot roughly, and Zac was finally jolted from his sleep. He looked up- bleary eyed- to see one of the army medics standing over him with an impatient look on his face. "Come on, we're moving out."

"What? Moving where?" he asked flatly.

"As in away from here," the medic replied testily, thumbing over towards a crowd of refugees who were already being herded away like cattle. "So move your ass." And with that, he walked away elsewhere, his time clearly limited. Zac sat up on his cot, and then looked around for the others. He saw them not too far away, jostling at the back of a long line of refugees.

"Zac!" called out Amy, her arms cradled through Ryan's left arm. Despite the bandages wrapped around his head, he still had a slight smile on his face. Zac hurried over to them quickly, nearly tripping over a cot which had been left askew as he did so.

"Wait, what's going on?" he asked, realizing the bigger scene.

"They're moving us," was all Steven said, not looking back.

Zac looked up again. He could hear the idling of several truck engines on standby, and the sound of helicopter rotors starting to spin up. In the midst of it all, soldiers ran to and fro, some of them helping one another to heft cases of equipment and other gear into some of the larger trucks, though most of them were trying to guide the refugees into the other trucks for transport. From where Zac was standing it looked more like a handful of shepherds trying to guide a massive flock of sheep to safety. Shepherds armed with assault rifles, of course.

"Oh Jesus," Zac cursed.

"Keep your voice down," whispered Michelle, standing a few places ahead of the line in front of Ryan and Amy, behind Steven, "I can't hear what they're saying."

"What's going on, what's happening?" asked Zac again, ignoring Michelle's request.

"I don't know," Steven called back, "we were woken up not long ago and they're telling us that we have to move further out from the city, but they won't say why, even if we ask them. A lot of people aren't happy, as you can guess." In front of Steven stood Lenny, just watching with heavy, tired eyes. He didn't say a word.

"Come on, move along!" shouted one of the troops, his M4 held in one hand, using his other to try and wave the crowd along. Three more were doing the same thing, though they seemed to be getting a little carried away with the herding. Zac saw one man nearly dragged along by his shoulder.

"Leave him alone!" shouted the woman he was with, her voice nearly hysterical in tone. She tried to push through the thronging bodies, but a soldier with sergeant stripes on his shoulder put a hand on her shoulder and shoved her back.

"Stay in the line and we'll see you when it's your turn!" he barked, somewhat harshly.

"There's no need to be a prick about it!" yelled someone else angrily, though they backed away immediately when the sergeant raised his rifle.

"I said back off!" he growled, patience wearing thin.

"They're not exactly helping," sighed Steven, shaking his head. "These people need reassuring, not being shoved about like cattle."

"Some of them have been here for days," added Michelle, "not knowing what's going on, so I don't blame them for panicking, but the troops should know better."

"And here I thought that things would be better outside the city," mused Ryan.

"Come on, let's just play along," whispered Amy, pulling Ryan along a few feet. "Anything's better than going back into that city."

And so they moved along with the throng, staying quiet despite the fact they were being jostled, shoved, and prodded from nearly every angle imaginable- both by other refugees and some of the soldiers. One of them in particular- another sergeant with the nametag 'Bourne' displayed on his jacket breast- was in a particularly foul mood judging by his face, and he was shoving some of the civilians along by the shoulder as they passed.

"Come on, keep moving," he shouted, putting a hand on Albert's shoulder roughly and shoving him along, nearly making him trip. _"Come on!"_

"Hey, leave him alone!" yelled Amy, moving to shield her father.

"We're trying to help you out," he reasoned, "but we can't do that if you drag your damn feet!"

"Hey, back off!" retorted Ryan, looking the bigger man straight in the eye.

"Or what?" sneered Bourne, staring straight back.

"Hey, just stop it!" cried Steven, wading into the argument. "We're all been through a lot of crap recently and treating us like prisoners isn't helping anyone!"

"Amy, it's okay!" insisted Albert as he was helped to his feet, "its okay. Let's just go," he then added, leading the way forwards. The others followed after him, casting a quick glance at Bourne who just smirked smugly at them before berating someone else.

"Dad, you're not okay," Amy whispered as they moved on, "you're not as young as you used to be, and don't try and be stubborn about it either."

"I'm fine," the old man croaked, coughing a little, "what if your mom gets out of the city after we've been moved and she can't find us? What if…" his voice trailed off and became strained at the same time.

"I know," she responded, placing a hand on her father's shoulder and squeezing. Behind them, Zac sighed and looked away at the other people around them- each of their faces a picture of misery and suffering.

"I'm not going anywhere until you tell us what the hell's going on!"

That remark came from a young man who was standing further forward in the line, sounding as though he were on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He was arguing with another of the soldiers, who just seemed to have a blank expression on his face as he tried to calm the man.

"Sir, we're not at liberty to say," he said, barely having enough energy to put some feeling into his words. "Just move along and we can get all of this dealt with quickly"-

"You can't herd us around like cattle!" shrieked the woman standing with the man who had just spoken up beforehand, tears on her cheeks. The people around the couple started to raise their own voices in protest, creating a noisy cacophony of sound. The troops tried their best to try and clam things, but they weren't having much luck. The line ground to a halt as well, the people already mounted up on trucks peering out to see what was going on. Things were going from bad to worse in the space of a few minutes. Some of them feared that a full scale riot was about to break out.

"We need to get out of here," said Michelle, looking about, "we need to get out of here now."

"And go where?" asked Steven in response, "they're not going to let any of us just walk away," he added, pointing out the armed soldiers that surrounded them, some of them starting to raise their voices angrily.

Then somewhere in the back, they saw one more man in uniform starting to approach, flanked by a pair of armed soldiers. He wasn't wearing a helmet or cap of any kind, but he did have the silver bars on his shoulder to mark his rank of Lieutenant. As he approached, he held up a hand and the other armed soldiers immediately backed away and lowered their weapons. The people started to crowd around him in a semi-circular fashion.

"People, I know this is all very unnerving for you," he began, holding his hands up.

"Wouldn't you be if you weren't told anything about what was going on?!" shouted a middle-aged man about ten yards ahead of Ryan's group, and then the rest of the crowd started to speak up, their voices rising up again, but the Lieutenant continued.

"-but getting yourselves worked up is not going to help anything!" he stated plainly. The shouts from the refugees started to die down somewhat. "I know we can't tell you why exactly we have to pull back, believe me, it's frustrating for us because we can't give you a full explanation…but for the time being we have a duty to keep you all safe, no matter what."

The crowd had fallen almost silent now, his words clearly bringing some sense to them. But he wasn't quite finished yet.

"If you want this to be over as soon as possible, then I suggest those of you who can still can to help with moving everyone and everything onto the trucks or choppers, so we can get this over with quickly." And with that, he walked away, followed by his guards. The shouting and crying of the crowds was replaced with a low murmur as they whispered amongst themselves, while the other troops started to scan through the ranks, picking out willing volunteers.

"Guess that's that then," mumbled Steven, shrugging his shoulders, looking over at the others.

"Well, guess I'm not helping anytime soon," coughed Ryan, still leaning on Amy for support, looking around, "what about you guys?"

"Well we don't have anything better to do, right?" asked Zac, looking around as several civilians started to follow after some of the soldiers, being shown what they would be helping out with.

"Suppose not," shrugged Steven again, "it'll help pass the time too." Then he turned towards Lenny. "What about you, Lenny?"

Lenny didn't respond straight away, as he was too busy starting off into some point in the distance- towards the city in fact. After a long time, he finally looked back at the others. "What's that?" he asked. Steven glanced sideways for a brief moment.

"I was just saying it might help pass the time if we helped the soldiers out?" he said, waving a hand towards the milling ranks of refugees and troops as they moved to and fro. "The Lieutenant said that if we helped them out then we could get out of here a lot faster."

"Sure, whatever," Lenny said, pushing past to offer his assistance. They watched him go for a moment.

"He's not well," said Ryan, picking up on the obvious.

"You think?" asked Steven sarcastically; though he quickly regretted the tone he had taken. "Sorry," he said quietly, shaking his head.

"I know, don't worry," Ryan responded, "It's been pretty crazy for all of us, though even that sounds like the understatement of the fucking century."

"Come on," said Zac, nudging his head in the direction Lenny had just gone. "We should keep an eye on him, just in case." Steven nodded in agreement, and the two of them headed off, leaving the girls and Ryan stood in the middle of the crowd of milling refugees. Looking around, Amy could see the dozens of pairs of sore, tired eyes that searched here and there. These people had lost everything, it just occurred to her.

"Come on, stick close," said Ryan, squeezing her hand. "We'll be alright." Even after everything that had happened, they at least had each other- that was some form of comfort.

* * *

"_Major! Incoming!"_

"Now what?" asked Major Foster with an impatient growl as he stomped up to the barricade and snatched the binoculars out of the hand of the young soldier who had just shouted out. It was bad enough that Richards was calling for them all to pull out, now it looked as though they were about to get a visit from the 'enemy forces' occupying Raccoon City.

He peered through the lenses of the binoculars, down through the cars that had been left abandoned at the side of the road, amongst the now-rotted bodies of the ones who had been massacred a couple of days ago. He could see the outlines of seven or eight figures staggering along towards them. Their lethargic, unsteady motions gave away their condition straight away.

"Fuck," whispered Foster, passing the binoculars back, "Corporal, hold back and take them out when they come close enough- then follow after us when you can."

"Yes sir," called out Corporal Morris, even as the Major was striding away from the barricades, checking his Beretta's magazine as he did. Satisfied that it was loaded, he slipped it back into its holster and approached the nearest transport truck, fully loaded to pull back.

"All set, Sergeant?"

"All set, sir," called back Sergeant Loomis, nodding. He stepped away from the rear of the truck and strapped his helmet back on, linking the straps beneath his chin. "We're ready to pull out when you give the word."

"Well I'm giving it now," Foster replied bluntly, "Morris and his team are going to follow behind once they've taken care of the current 'guests'- you know how far back we're moving?"

"Ten miles, Major."

Anything that was too close to Raccoon City by the dawn of October would be vaporized. Colonel Adams hadn't told Foster that per se, but he had mentioned the implementation of total decontamination measures- and that meant only one thing. He had seen documentaries and magazine articles on the nuclear bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki at the end of World War 2; had seen the pictures of those poor children naked and screaming, many of them with the skin melted off of their backs- it wasn't pretty. And now they were pulling back to avoid suffering the same fate.

"Good," he said instead, walking off towards the humvee he had commandeered. As he did, he passed by Corporal Elghan, who was talking with the woman they had been looking after. She was sat in the passenger seat of the other transport truck, her sleeping son held in her arms.

"-it's as much a shock to me as anyone, Anna," he reasoned, "but the sooner we do this then the sooner we can get you moved to the other centre."

"I know that, it's just…" her voice trailed off and she looked down at her dozing child, "I can't help but feel that if we leave then Lenny will make his way here and I won't be able to"-

"Don't think like that," Elghan said, putting a hand on the door frame. "We'll find him, don't worry- just be patient for us for a bit longer, please."

"Of course," she said with a tired smile, turning away to face forwards, and allowing Tom to close the door for her. Then he sighed and moved around to the rear of the vehicle, clambering up into its transport deck alongside a few others, scrunched up close together alongside the numerous storage crates and other gear they had loaded up.

"Hope this is going to be over soon," groaned Ross, one of the younger privates, his helmet on the ground between his feet. He ran a hand through his hair and looked over at the Corporal. "Bet you want it to be over soon too, eh? So you can see your girls again?"

"You can say that again," Elghan sighed, "not much longer I hope."

With that, one of the others slammed a hand on the passenger door of the truck cab, and there was a growl as the engine came to life. A few seconds later it was reversing out onto the tarmac- giving enough time for one last soldier to run up and jump up into the back- and then peeling away down the highway, following after the pair of Humvees occupied by Major Foster and the other officers.

Behind them, Corporal Morris bought up his M16A4 rifle and peered through the ACOG scope at the staggering figures approaching them. They were within a hundred yards now, and he could make out some of the finer details now- the first man was wearing a light blue work shirt, one of the sleeves ripped away from the shoulder stitching. He couldn't see the man's face clearly, but he was covered from head to stomach in blood so it was hard to make much of anything out. His stomach turned.

"Let them come a little closer before you light them up," Morris ordered, as the four others standing beside him readied their own rifles to create a makeshift firing line. "Once they're down we moving out."

He flicked the fire selector from his rifle onto the semi-automatic function and fixed the glowing lines of the sight over the businessman's bloody face. The figures were coming closer now, and he could hear the moans. They rose and fell in a random fashion, but since there was more than one the sounds were harmonizing into a macabre choir that chilled his spine. He could see that the others were looking a little unnerved to say the least too.

"Come on, hold it steady," he called out, trying to keep his voice firm. "This'll be easy pickings." He waited for several more seconds, until the figures had reached the red yard stick which someone had driven into the soil verge after they had first deployed here- just in case. Morris' finger curled around the trigger.

"_Fire at will!"_

There was a loud crack as Morris' rifle fired, and was quickly followed by the others.

* * *

"Are the choppers loaded?"

"Yes sir!" yelled Sergeant Kelso.

"Good- get them airborne soon as you can," Fletcher ordered, clutching a hand to the top of his head to stop his cloth hat from blowing away on the powerful downdraft from several Blackhawk choppers spinning up. Somewhere to his right, a few troopers ran by, clutching onto their own hats as they passed by.

"-and get those damn trucks loaded as well- I want us to be away from here sooner rather than later."

"Sir," nodded Kelso, turning and scurrying away somewhere. Once he was out of sight, Fletcher turned and walked back inside of the communications tent which he had just emerged from to get his status report. Inside, several communications officers in standard fatigue shirts and pants sat at the numerous consoles, wearing their headsets.

"Okay Corporal," said the Lieutenant, leaning in over the shoulder of a young man with very light blonde hair, "show me the tape."

"Of course sir," the younger man replied, his fingers flying across his keyboard, calling up an audio file on the screen in front of him. Then he passed the Lieutenant a pair of headphones with a black cable trailing into the console in front of him. As Fletcher pulled them on, he gave the Corporal a quick nod, who clicked his mouse button on the play button.

There were a few seconds of dead air- a low crackle of static- before Fletcher heard a dial tone of a cell phone, and then a familiar voice answered. _"Hello?"_

"_It's me," _answered another voice, one which Fletcher had heard not too long ago on that cell phone they had found on Greene's corpse. He listened intently as the conversation developed.

"_Ah, Mr Lindeman- I trust all is well with the board?"_

"_Don't ask. Spencer is going to run us into the ground if he keeps at the rate he's going. The old fool…"_

The man was Daniel Lindeman, the director for Umbrella's New York branch, one of the men who had been sitting in on that video conference he had attended days ago. The Spencer he was referring to had to be Oswell Spencer, the conglomerate's CEO. From the sounds of it, all was not well on the home front for the Corporation.

"_So you've told me before," _the other man chuckled, _"trust me, they all know Spencer's got more than a few screws loose-"_

"_And yet they still follow him obediently, like the dogs fetching a stick thrown by their master," _Lindeman retorted snidely. _"They're either stupid, or too scared of him setting his hound on them."_

"_You mean Sergei?"_ asked the other voice, pausing to laugh to himself. _"That damned Russian- he's got a few screws loose as well: he and Spencer were made for each other! No wonder the old man was so keen to take him on board."_

The truth was a very painful for Fletcher right then. He was listening to one of Umbrella's top figures- the enemy as it were- conversing with someone who was assigned to that refugee centre at the very moment- one of his own men. Someone who he supposedly trusted with his life had been aiding the enemy this entire time. Greene was apparently in the same boat, but clearly he hadn't been as accepting of it, considering his fate.

When Fletcher had asked the comms staff to monitor any incoming and outgoing traffic, part of him didn't want to find anything, wanted to be proved wrong- but this message he was listening to proved that Umbrella had more than one inside man amongst the ranks. And he recognized the voice as Sergeant Matthew Bourne- someone who, he now realized, was one of those people who never interacted with his comrades, never went out with them, nothing- even Fletcher himself couldn't name even one of Bourne's hobbies outside of the barracks. And as this recording proved, there was a good reason for all that secrecy. He could have been on Umbrella's payroll for years before all this.

Now as he listened to the contact giving Lindeman an update on the situation, he felt a hot anger flowing through him- anger at the person betraying them, anger at Umbrella for their almost casual treatment of the Raccoon City disaster, but also anger at himself. He should have known that something was up- he should have realized that something was up long before Tobias Greene blew his brains out in front of several national news crews. He could have done something.

"_-so why do you start now? Just do what I'm paying you to do!" _Lindeman was sounding frustrated now, and his words only served to further implicate himself in what was happening. There was a long pause from Bourne's line, and then he finally sighed in annoyance.

"_Fine." _Then there was a click as the call was ended, and all they could hear now was dead air of static drone.

"Son of a bitch," whispered Fletcher, rubbing his face.

"Sir?" asked the Corporal, looking up. "What do you want me to do?" That was a good question- Fletcher was tempted to march right outside, find Sergeant Bourne, and break his damn neck there on the spot for this betrayal. But then again perhaps more tact was needed. If he had Bourne arrested then and there he might have a solid defense prepared. Better to catch him in the midst of some act so he couldn't deny it.

"Just…keep monitoring that line," he ordered pointing at the console, "make a recording of anything else suspicious that you pick up and keep several copies- one for me, one for yourself, and another for command."

"Yes sir," nodded the Corporal, turning back to his duties, but then Fletcher's hand came down on his shoulder.

"One more thing- keep this between me and you, am I clear?"

"Y-yes sir." And that was that. The Lieutenant walked back outside, leaving the young corporal to his own devices. There was so much more to be done.

* * *

"Over there!"

"Where?"

"_There!" _The sergeant pointed with an outstretched finger, to the vacant space beside the truck tailgate, where two other men in camouflage fatigues were loading up the truck with the heavy steel boxes which had been littered around the site ever since the soldiers had first settled there.

"Fine," grunted Steven, as he and Lenny waddled over and dropped the crate within the spot. They briefly considered straightening it up so that it wasn't just sitting there at an odd angle, but then the soldiers were already grabbing onto the side handles and hefting it up onto the truck flatbed.

"Come on, get going!" the sergeant barked as Lenny and Steven backed away to grab something else to shift. A short distance away, Zac ran alongside a handful of other people, ferrying an unconscious person on a stretcher towards a waiting Blackhawk chopper. This really was all hands on deck stuff- everyone who could was helping out in some fashion. The large shipping containers had already been flown away by other choppers (including a couple of huge Chinook transports that nearly overturned a Humvee), so all that remained was everything else- people, vehicles, supplies.

Ryan winced slightly as he was helped up onto the bed of one of the trucks, alongside some two dozen others in tattered and dirty civilian clothes. Many of them had already dozed off, heads bowed. "Easy there," said Albert Jefferson as he eased the young man into a seated position.

"Thanks Al," grunted Ryan, forcing a smile. "Wonder how long we'll have to wait before we can head off."

"Not much longer I hope," Amy answered, looking out over the grounds. "They've got enough people helping out- and with any luck things won't get any worse in the city."

"Well they've stopped looking for people," her father noted morosely, looking out towards the burning smoke pillars that marked Raccoon City. No doubt he was thinking of his wife- still lost out there. So was Amy, who didn't say anything at all, and Ryan was smart enough not to open his mouth either.

There was a dull thud from somewhere behind them as one of the truck drivers smacked his palm against the side of the truck cab. "Alright! Roll out!" he cried, as another one appeared at the rear of the vehicle and closed the tailgate.

"Wait, what about the others?" called out Michelle, craning her neck out towards the soldier. He looked just about ready to walk away, but she called out again. "Hey! I'm asking you a question!"

"Ma'am, do us all a favor and shut up before we leave your ass here," he growled, and then walked away, leaving them just sitting there in stunned silence.

"Who the hell does he think he is?!" asked Michelle, looking around in incredulity. "I appreciate they're all under a lot of pressure, but that was uncalled for!"

"Just don't worry about it," Ryan responded, as he saw the tailgates on a couple of the other trucks slam shut. "Everyone's on edge enough as it is."

"But what about the others?!" Michelle continued, her voice starting to rise. "They'll be left behind!"

"There's more than enough trucks for everyone else out there," Amy reasoned, "they'll be fine. Considering half the world's watching I doubt they'd just leave people to fend for themselves out there." Michelle didn't seem comforted though, as she continued to peer back and forth as far as her neck would allow her head to turn. The truck's engine started to rumble behind them, and then it began to peel away.

Close by, Zac looked up in time to see one of the trucks pulling away- and he saw Michelle and Amy in the back, peering out over the tailgate. Forgetting the fact that he was supposed to be helping out a few other people, he tried to run after the truck as it turned onto the road.

"Woah, what the hell are you doing?!" yelled an angry-looking man in his thirties, nearly dropping an ammunition crate on his foot, which would have likely shattered his toes. Zac ignored him though, until Lenny suddenly appeared and grabbed onto his arm, pulling him back from the road- just as another truck sped by, nearly knocking him down.

"Easy son," he said, watching the trucks go by.

"Did you see that?" asked Zac breathlessly- "they just took off with the others- they left us here!"

"Come on Zac," said Lenny, sighing slightly, "there's plenty more trucks left- I'm sure that they wouldn't just leave us here."

"They better not," sighed Steven, straightening his back and stretching his arms to the sky, "I swear, if those things come out here I won't be a happy man- I doubt they would be smart enough to follow us this far anyway."

"I hope so," said Lenny, his voice trailing off as he stared into the distance towards the necropolis he once called home. In the skies a few choppers moved to and fro, but nowhere near as many he had seen to begin with.

_Anna…Lewis…_

He turned away, the sadness still hanging over him.

* * *

The bar was one of those tiny dive places, though it was remarkably tidier than many others that Arthur Graham had seen in his life- back in the day (as his dad would always say) he'd frequent bars like this in between college classes- of course, that was back before he even thought that he would become the state representative for his state. How things had changed…

"Another one, senator?" asked the middle-aged man behind the counter.

"Go ahead Benny," sighed Graham, sliding the empty glass down the bar. His jacket and his tie were gone so that his dress shirt was visible. He sighed and rubbed his face, the events of the day already starting to get to him- it was nearly midday and yet he felt as though he'd been on his feet for days. And he really should have known better than to be drinking whisky so early, but he had no other arrangements- so fuck it.

Two of his bodyguards were there of course- though in plain clothes and sitting some distance away, so as not to alarm the other patrons in the bar- which at the moment consisted of two middle-aged men who looked down on their luck and a young couple huddled in the farthest booth, whispering sweet nothings between one another in their ears.

The front door swung open, rattling a small brass bell that hung just above the frame. Graham glanced over and saw the considerable frame of Ron Davies approaching. He made an obvious show of rolling his eyes as he looked back down at his glass. Davies sat himself down on the stool beside Graham and made himself relatively comfortable before he spoke up.

"Thought I might find you here," the larger man said with a slight smile, hands clasped on the bar top in front of him. "This dive has a real nice…atmosphere. The perfect spot for a senator to blend into the background." Though his tone sounded sincere, there was a bitter undercurrent behind it. Graham didn't respond, he just stared straight ahead.

"Fancy a drink, sir?" asked the bartender, but Davis just shook his head and tried to talk to the Maine representative again.

"How's your family then, Arthur?" he asked, trying to be sincere again, even though it was just small talk. "Your little girl Ashley would be starting High School now, right? Guess that means she's not so little now."

"What do you want, Ron?" asked Graham snidely, taking another sip from his glass. "Because if you've come here to try and talk me around, don't even bother- I know fine well which way the vote will fall."

"Well if you're admitting it then it saves me having to explain one thing away," Davis shrugged, looking ahead. "But either way the vote has already been taken. Total Decontamination Measures have been approved."

"…and so 100,000 people are consigned to death," Graham said bitterly, downing the rest of his glass and reaching for his wallet to pull out some notes, passing them to Benny as he passed by. "Keep the change," he murmured quietly.

"You know there's no saving those people in Raccoon City," reasoned Davis, shaking his head slightly, "and you also know we can't risk it spreading outside of the city. This is serious, Arthur- and I know that you _know _that- so why all this posturing?"

"You really want me to answer that?" asked Arthur, turning around to face Davis for the first time since the big man had walked in. "This should _never _have happened in the first place, Ron. And it's common knowledge that Baxter, you, and at least half a dozen of the other senators in congress are major shareholders with Umbrella. The whole thing stinks- and frankly I don't want any of it rubbing off on me."

"But as I said, the vote's been cast," Davis answered smugly, "and all your protests won't change a damn thing." His tone had changed from false sincerity to barely-disguised menace now, and he started to glower at Graham now.

"Go to hell!" spat Graham viscously, standing up from his stool suddenly, the raised voice and sudden movement making the other patrons glanced up briefly. Then he pointed a finger at Davis' portly chest.

"I might not be able to change anything now, but I'll make something clear to you right now. Rudolph Baxter was one of closest friends, and now he's been put over a barrel by those cold-hearted Umbrella bastards just because they couldn't control themselves! All those years, all that hard work- flushed down the drain!"

Then he turned away and retrieved his jacket, pulling it on as his bodyguards got the hint and got up from their seats. "So, _Ronald_…once all this is over, I'm going to formally request that charges are bought against Umbrella and anyone else who was involved with Raccoon City and all those other disasters- anyone who so much as sneezed within the general vicinity of one of their HQ's. And you know full well that even if Congress doesn't want anything to do with it, you can be sure that the people of this country will be up in arms."

"Do what you have to," Davis sighed, "just don't say that I never gave you a chance."

"Hell Ron, if it means you go down with them, then so be it- I won't shed any tears. I might be in the minority here, but at least I still have my principles."

And with that, he walked straight past Davis and out of the front door, the bell jangling as his bodyguards followed close behind him. Ron Davis watched them all go, and then he sighed heavily and leaned forwards on the bar top.

"Whatever you say Arthur," he whispered, "it won't matter in the end."

But Davis would be proved wrong in the distant future.

**A/N: And so here we are again…after another long pause between updates. Sorry about that. *self-flagellates***

**In all seriousness though we are getting really close to the end now- perhaps one more chapter and the epilogue? Or I might just throw them both together for one long chapter, but if it's a case that it would make a huge chapter then I'll just split it up probably- I wouldn't want to put you all through that. With any luck I'll have completed this by the end of summer.**

**Anyways, as I am real tired right now, leave a review as always. I appreciate any kind of feedback. And thanks again if you're still reading this after so long. **


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